


First and Only

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal, Angst, Bullying, Family Drama, Fingering, Fluff, Frotting, Grinding, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Teenlock, Unilock, Unspoken stuff, Virginity, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 68,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been inseparable since birth, working through life as neighborhood best friends, attached at the hip. Unfortunately, reality can break up even the closest of us, and John and Sherlock struggle through all that growing up entails. But first loves are unforgettable, and the boys come to realize that their love is the first and only they'll ever have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, there's going to be a lot of notes for this one.  
>   
> First of all, I'm aware that writing kidlock that ends in smut can be awkward, but I promise to steer the atmosphere and situations as far from creepy as I can. That being said, puberty's a thing, and all sexual tension and interaction as an effect are purely in hopes of being realistic.  
>   
> Also, I did a lot of research for this fic: the complex town structures of England, the school system, and everything in between. But I did take some creative liberties, seeing as I'm American, so please be patient if some of the geography or school lingo is off.  
> And lastly, I know Sherlock was born in January, but since this is an age-bent AU, he's a June baby instead :)
> 
> P.S. Someone sent me [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdXNNveYOfU%22) music video/song and told me that it reminded them of this fic. It's ridiculously perfect and I died 10,000 deaths. ToT
> 
> ~follow my [blog](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) for updates and more johnlock~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps, Mrs Watson thought, serious good could come from this strange supermarket interaction.

Elizabeth Watson meandered through the aisles, left hand on her round belly, right clasping a shopping basket. Her grey eyes flicked from brand to brand, wondering which pickled turnips would satisfy her cravings the best. Irritated and sore, she'd been perusing the store for much too long, picky about crisps and fruit. Fortunately, her husband decided to stay in and watch the game, so she had a bit of freedom in shopping for groceries. 

She shuffled her weary feet against the linoleum and hummed along to the overplayed 70's pop that echoed, static and basic, through the store. The music faded as she reached out for a jar, another song coming in right on top of it.

"Oh, not this one!" She laughed to herself, throwing her head back.

"A bit outdated, isn't it?" A pleasant, warm voice beside her chimed.

Looking towards it, the soon-to-be mother found that the voice belonged to a stunning woman with high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. The woman smiled kindly and flicked a brunette curl from her cheek.

"Last time I heard this song was when I was just recently out of school. Everyone always joked around, singing along poorly, no matter when it came on."

The woman holding the pickled turnips hummed, "My brother played it at my wedding. Everyone groaned but danced wildly just the same."

Something in the woman's face went soft as she turned her body towards Elizabeth and reached out her hand. "Victoria," she offered. Her eyes dropped to Elizabeth's stomach. "When are you due?"

It then hit Mrs Watson that Victoria was pregnant as well, round belly stretching her purple blouse. After placing the turnips in her basket, Elizabeth rose her eyes back to the woman's face and shook her hand. It was thin and delicate, a sparkling diamond ring on her left hand. "Late March, early April. You?"

"June."

"Ah," Elizabeth crossed her ankles. "A summer baby. That'll be nice."

"Mm, yes. Myc was born in October, so he's more glad than me. Won't have to share his birthday month." Victoria traced a finger over a row of pickled peppers as she said, "This one your first?" 

Elizabeth was quite taken with this woman's forward but gentle nature. It was a welcome change in comparison to the skepticism her friends and relatives gave her.

"Yes." She tried not to sound nervous.

"You'll be fine. You have strong hips."

The blonde chuckled timidly. She looked away, if not for the intensity of Victoria's stare then for the brashness of her observations.

Victoria spoke again, "It's not so bad." She leaned in, as if to tell a secret, "Not as gruesome as the movies make it. Just feels like you've got to use the loo."

"Well," Elizabeth breathed, "That's a relief. Unless you're lying." 

Feeding off the teasing energy, the woman raised her hands defensively, "I'm not! What could I possibly gain from that?"

Shrugging, Elizabeth felt herself smile again. It was nice, how easy it was to talk to her, and they'd only just met. There was a comfortable moment of silence as they scuffled about the aisle. Elizabeth watched at how gracefully the woman moved, placing a few jars in her own basket with a jingle of her silver bracelets. Realizing she hadn't introduced herself, the younger woman broke the silence. "I'm Elizabeth, by the way. Sorry. ...You craving pickled vegetables as well?"

"Oh no, I want chocolate. My son, Mycroft, likes pickled peppers. He's a strange one." She said the last bit with a fond smile, and Elizabeth could tell that she loved her son very much.

"How old is he?"

"Eight. Don't know how he'll react when this one comes," she placed a hand on her stomach and beamed as mothers often do. "He's smart, so I know he'll take care of the baby, but he has a tendency to pout when he's not given enough attention."

"Sounds like my husband."

Victoria chuckled. "You guys live in the area? I haven't seen you, and I know absolutely everyone around here."

The store loudspeaker crackled about a spill in aisle six as Elizabeth shuffled again and said, "George and I are looking for a house now. Can't live in an apartment anymore. Was told this might be a nice place."

"Oh, it is!" Victoria's eyes lit up, "The Fens are a great place to raise a child, especially if you want to get away from the city. It's all natural and heavy in agriculture. The towns are nice, and there's plenty of open space for the kids to play. We have our own property with a small clearing behind the house. What type of place are you thinking of?"

"Just something bigger. Not too expensive, I mean…"

The brunette swallowed awkwardly. Her pampered curls and pretty bracelets didn't match Elizabeth's undone hair and pajama pants, although anyone carrying a child would opt for comfort instead of style. Victoria was perceptive, though, and had figured that Elizabeth might not be as well off as herself. That didn't stifle her kindness, however. "Of course. You know, there's a house that's being sold in my neighborhood, and it might be a good fit. Not assuming anything, obviously, but it's a thought."

The women, seemingly content with their selections, unconsciously began walking together as Elizabeth Watson contemplated the proposal. "You think it could work?"

"I think so. It's a nice, quiet neighborhood and there's a school within walking distance."

"That sounds lovely. I'll talk to my husband, thank you." Elizabeth looked about the store as they walked. 

Something resembling complete support and kindness between them went unsaid. Victoria did not need to speak to her as she shopped, and she especially did not have to assure her of impending motherhood or offer her a place to move in. But she did, and Elizabeth was so relieved for any extra help she could get. She was a bit young to be starting a family, so any older mother with kind eyes was a Godsend. Elizabeth felt safe around her, as silly as that was. The woman's slender face beamed with acceptance and love, instead of the snotty condescension someone with that much beauty could potentially wield. 

Elizabeth thought all this to herself, of course, as they exited the aisle and moved onto another. The shelves were packed with pasta and other instant meals of various colors, and Elizabeth wondered if she should come back and pick one up for dinner. 

She probably would, but she had a question first. "Victoria," she said. "If this is Wisbech, what's the Fens?"

Raising her chin to answer, the other mother looked out one of the store windows and into the street. "They call this area, the district, the Fens. Or the Fenlands. Wisbech is the town, second largest town in Cambridgeshire, which is part of the region of East Anglia. I can see how it'd be confusing. Where have you come from?"

"Brent. It's been quite a journey. My brother in law recommended this area, he said it'd be a change from the city, but we got a bit lost in direction. We're staying in a motel at the moment." The more she talked about it, Elizabeth found, the sadder it sounded. She wanted a home, somewhere to settle down.

"Well, come check out the house in my neighborhood. It'd be nice to have a new mother around, and who knows, maybe the little ones can be friends." She said it with such certainty and tenderness that Mrs Watson already felt it to be true.

"Maybe so," she replied, looking down at her stomach.

Elizabeth Watson knew that she'd do anything to make life for her child as pleasant as she could. With her husband's temper and their lack of wealth, she worried the baby might not get every opportunity to be happy. Fortunately, the woman she'd just met turned her kind eyes and soft voice towards her and assured her that really, it wouldn't be so bad. Victoria had made her feel more welcome to the realm of motherhood than any of her other friends, and only in a bit of small talk. 

Perhaps, Mrs Watson thought, serious good could come from this strange supermarket interaction. Victoria was kind and helpful, and Elizabeth had already placed her trust in her. She'd been offered the perfect place to settle, and if it worked out, her child would grow up in a small town in rural England with a neighbor his or her age to befriend. Elizabeth hoped it'd work. It was a nice thought.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a silly friendship, but the mothers knew it'd be a great one.

Two weeks after meeting Victoria Holmes, the Watsons moved into the house they'd been recommended. George Watson had readily agreed, considering he was impatient and tired of looking for housing. While her husband didn't actively stymie the move-in process, Elizabeth found Charles, Victoria's husband, much more helpful. She would have been happy to do the heavy lifting herself, but her neighbors firmly directed her elsewhere. 

Elsewhere, apparently, was touring the neighborhood. Elizabeth pulled on her walking shoes and a sunhat and, with Victoria at her side, wandered along Thomas street. She had explored a bit when checking out the house, but she hadn't had the time nor the patience to admire the neighborhood fully, so she gladly took the opportunity.

As the furniture found its angles and the carpets uncurled themselves, the women toured the area, Mrs Holmes whispering embarrassing secrets about her neighbors to Mrs Watson. 

Just as predicted, Mrs Watson found that she liked the neighborhood very much. It consisted of one long, quiet road, at the top of which was the Holmes residence. The smell of damp earth hung in the air, and almost all of the mismatching houses along the street had gardens in the back or vines wrapping 'round their structures. The mailboxes were colorful and most seemed to be painted by hand. The houses varied in size and structure, some with rope swings in the yard and others with porches, wicker chairs and tables adorning them pleasantly. Elizabeth admired them individually as they went, although the street eventually sloped up and towards the Holmes estate.

Victoria's home was large and grand, with curved designs on the bannisters of the front steps. The many tinted windows kept the house mysterious, although anyone could guess the interior was just as beautiful. Naturally, it was. 

Creamy vases sat empty atop mahogany dressers, and paintings of fruit and bridges adorned the wallpapered hallways. The solid doors to the many rooms remained closed, their knockers and doorknobs glistening from dusty sunbeams that streamed in and cast an angelic glow in the foyer. A large staircase sat in the center, splitting into two as it climbed towards the second story. Elizabeth was in awe as she admired it, and her friend had to nudge her arm to bring her back. Flushing with embarrassment, the young woman apologized and stumbled over her words.

"It's just so… big," she struggled.

Chuckling warmly as she often did, Victoria brought an arm around Elizabeth's waist and responded, "It's not too much?"

"No, no! It's… fantastic."

The woman of the house beamed, high cheeks glowing pink. She turned her attention back to her home, brown braid swinging between her narrow shoulders as she went. 

While the house was indeed stylish and founded from wealth, the atmosphere was anything but pretentious. It was loving and magnificent, like the Holmes couple themselves, and Elizabeth knew the patterned walls kept many cherished memories. She also knew there would be endless others once their children were born.

Leading her through the house, Victoria brought Elizabeth to the back, where the stretch of land she'd mentioned before lay out like a jade dish, afternoon sun peaking over the horizon. The grassy plain looked soft and fresh, and Victoria told Elizabeth that the low, stooping trees that lined the property gave way to a marsh. Eyes wide and heart thrumming, Elizabeth could see her child running through the cool shade of the trees, playing happily in the privacy of the property.

Brimming with hope for her family's future, Elizabeth sighed happily as Victoria walked her arm in arm out of her house and down the street, back to her new home.

In contrast to the Holmes' mansion, the Watson's house was simple, a patchwork of browns and tans with a front porch and shutters on the windows. The house wasn't unattractive, but it definitely wasn't the best of the block. Mrs Holmes must have sensed Mrs Watson's distress upon returning, because she leaned in before releasing her to Mr Watson and told her that there is no shame in anything she'd accomplished thus far. Her heart swelling with affection for the woman, Elizabeth gave her one final smile and mouthed her thanks.

"We'll check in tomorrow to make sure you're all settled," Victoria Holmes proposed as she smoothed her cerulean sundress over her round belly. Then she was gone, out the door and back to walking up the street, leaving Elizabeth to look fondly towards the mansion's silhouette at the end of the road.

"You two seem to be getting along," her husband appeared then, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. 

"Of course, she was the one who invited us here."

"Well, I'm glad. We could use a good friend."

Elizabeth agreed. Victoria's friendship had brought her everything she'd wanted: a lovely place to live, someone to spend time with, and even a friend for her baby. 

Mrs Watson yawned as the fuzzy edges of sleep crept in. She embraced her husband and kissed him before disappearing into her unfamiliar bedroom. It had been a wonderful day, Elizabeth decided, and for the first time in a long time, she knew the next day would be just as good.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Victoria and Elizabeth were nearly inseparable. Neither of them decided to work while pregnant, so they had time to explore the town when they felt like fresh air and sit around on the mansion's settees with strawberries when they didn't. Victoria, sweet person that she was, offered some of her old maternity clothes, as well as a few pretty things to Elizabeth for when she regained her figure. Shocked at her kindness, Elizabeth accepted them graciously, but Victoria swore it was no trouble at all. 

The difference in age and wealth between them was irrelevant; they rivaled teenage girls in compatibility. They talked about their childhoods, their husbands, and the futures they hoped for their children. Conversation was easy and light, although anything dark was listened to with soft eyes and an empathetic heart. Elizabeth opened up about her previous bad relationships, and Victoria confessed to having a miscarriage the first time she was pregnant. 

The women became each other's sole crutch, especially as they sunk deeper into their trimesters. Along with cramps and cravings came affectionate nicknames, and Vic and Liz were happy.

George and Charles didn't get along as well as their wives, but they tried as best they could to humor them by spending some time together.

The four of them were a strange little family of sorts, waiting out the next few months in anticipation. The same could be said for Mycroft, although he mostly preoccupied himself with school and hid away in his room when the Watsons were over.

Then, after weeks of excited phone calls and visits, Elizabeth went into labor.

John Watson was born March 31st at three in the afternoon. He was pink in the face and fragile, but Elizabeth loved him fiercely. The nurse that assisted Mrs Watson told her that she'd never seen such wise eyes on a newborn.

Three months later, at four in the morning, Sherlock Holmes was born. That sixth of June, Victoria let her love for Mycroft expand to envelope his little brother as she held her new son in her arms. 

After Sherlock was born, the mothers took some time apart to care for their sons, independently, wholly and totally absorbed in their newborns. Of course, whenever they had the chance and could spare the company, they'd come together in the nursery, the garden, or the sitting room and chat as their babies slept. 

Sometimes Mycroft would appear and talk to Elizabeth shyly. When she let him, he'd inspect John and prod at his stomach. He twitched a bit, but otherwise remained soundly sleeping. Mycroft Holmes would then move onto the other babe, who was drooling on his mother's chest. Mycroft breathed down on him, warm breath fluffing his thin curls, before he'd wrinkle his nose and say that the babies smelled weird. He then would disappear and only return when he was feeling sentimental. 

He rarely held Sherlock in his arms, no matter how much his mother wanted him to. When he did, though, it was so tender and so fragile, and his mother would watch from around the corner, out of sight. She'd catch him speaking to Sherlock softly, softly, promising him that he'll take care of him, that he'll never let anyone hurt him. He'd never admit to doing this of course - he was a stubborn kid. 

The months passed, John and Sherlock eating and spitting and growing, as is the nature of babies.

Mrs Holmes compared Sherlock's growth to Mycroft's while Elizabeth compared John's to her niece. Both of them worked together in raising their boys, and as their sons began to reach out and open their eyes, they immediately set them together and let him interact. 

The babies were curious of each other and reached out with small hands when together, squirming and wriggling in a crib as Mrs Holmes and Mrs Watson took their tea. Sometimes John would suck on his fingers and smear spittle on Sherlock's forehead, which resulted in a bonk to the nose. It was a silly friendship, but the mothers knew it'd be a great one.

Both had blue eyes, but John's gleamed slightly grey where Sherlock's often glinted green. John took after his mother's light hair and small mouth, and Sherlock developed dark curls and plump lips like Victoria. Both boys were so pretty that George and Charles had to strain their eyes to see where their resemblances lay. The women assured them that once the boys got older, they'd adapt their father's traits. They laughed at the promise, even with the possibility it might be untrue. The husbands accepted it with a grumble anyway and left them alone once more.

Sherlock and John grew together, separate and different, but very much connected. 

When John was two, his sister was born. Harriet was much more stubborn than John in keeping Elizabeth up at night, but the mother was now well-versed in how to raise a child, and did a fine job based on her experience with John. 

Unfortunately, as Harry grew, Elizabeth saw less of Victoria. It would have been easy to stay in touch, considering they lived on the same block, but a toddler and a child were more to handle than just John, and Elizabeth found her hands tied. George was of little help, although he did spend some time with John, bouncing him on his knee as he watched the game. Elizabeth was too tired most nights to reprimand him, so she settled for what she could get.

It wasn't that her husband resented the children, of course not, she was sure he loved them, but he was, like some men, still experimenting with fatherhood. Sometimes he held Harry in one arm and had John in his lap, and sometimes he let them cry and cry as he drank and ate cold leftovers. He talked to them when he felt like it and put them to bed when he'd tired them out. 

Mr Watson had found work a few weeks after moving in, and while his job in a hardware store couldn't necessarily compare to Elizabeth's dreams of opening a bookshop, somebody had to work while the children grew, and for the moment, it seemed he was it. 

Once Harriet got a bit older, Elizabeth hired a neighborhood teenage girl to babysit as she took up a part-time job. She worked at a retirement home in a quiet part of town, nursing the elderly with the same care that she took nursing her children. She'd then come home, halfway through the day, and cherish her actual children.

It was definitely difficult, Elizabeth found, but she was happy. Tired, irritated, sore, missing her slimmer figure, but definitely happy.

However, she did feel bad for losing touch with the Holmes family. Visiting them slipped her mind, and once she began working, pleasant afternoons with Vic were impossible.

So another year passed, and when John was three, he began school. His mother walked him all the way to Wesbich Academy, which luckily consisted of pre-school, primary, and secondary school. It was almost unbelievable, scoring a house so close to a popular school, but then again, so was thinking that all of this happiness had come from one supermarket interaction.

Standing outside the school with John holding on tight, Elizabeth caught herself looking for a flash of purple and dark, curly hair. 

The other children wobbled all over the place with their colorful shirts and shoes, hiding behind their tired parents. One dad standing beside a tree met her eyes, and Elizabeth offered a meek smile. He didn't seem to respond, if he'd noticed at all, and her heart sank.

It flipped in surprise, however, when she felt warm, gentle compression on her shoulder. Turning, Elizabeth found Vic's smiling face. Immediately she let go of John and pulled her into a hug, which might have been too forward, if Victoria hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand and embraced her back.

They exchanged apologies for losing touch, even as they crossed paths many times, and after a bit of stumbling, they were back to normal. They chatted away, listing off their complaints, hopes, and expectations for their sons' first year.

Sherlock and John eyed each other shyly as their mothers talked. There was something extremely familiar about the other, but both of them felt like this was the first time they'd ever met. Of course, they were both three years old, so the complex range of emotions may have been lost as they looked on, curious but hiding behind their mothers' legs.

* * *

Their mothers had pushed them into the classroom and sat with them all through introduction. When they had to leave, they kissed John and Sherlock, told them to stick together, and promised them that they would pick them up later that day. The boys then were faced with each other for the first time in a long time. Neither of them said anything, but they barely had a chance to, since soon they were being ushered into a playroom by a smiley woman with pink lips. 

The classroom was colorful and peaceful, fresh lines of twine stretching across the ceiling, waiting for new art to display. There were blocks of all shapes and sizes, as well as toys and stuffed animals, neatly collected in the play area. In the windows sat jars of colored water, glistening like liquid gems and aligned in a rainbow pattern. John and Sherlock, while shy, took the sight in with curious eyes, ignoring their teacher as they looked about. 

Consisting of ten children, a teacher, and an assistant teacher, the pre-school buzzed with nervous energy but remained quiet as Ms Rachel outlined the children's options. They could play until nap time and play more until snack time. It wasn't a very demanding job, being a three year old, but there were rules. 

While the children tittered with excitement at the newness, they understood "being good" as their mothers had taught them. This meant washing their hands after using the loo, respecting each other, and resisting the urge to smear stickiness anywhere but a canvas or napkin. This last rule seemed a bit far-fetched, but Ms Rachel said it all the same. 

After that, she let them explore, keeping a close eye on her half as her assistant watched the other. 

Immediately, the other children wobbled over to the blocks and toys. John and Sherlock were left sitting on the clock-faced carpet, wondering what on earth they were meant to do. John, having some experience with communicating with baby Harriet, offered the first hello. 

Sherlock was silent as he looked at the round face before him. Something was definitely familiar about the eyes and lips, but everything was so new that he didn't trust it. Instead, he responded in a meek hello and looked away shyly.

In the next few days, Sherlock and John did what their mothers told them to: they stuck together. Maybe they didn't talk too much at first, and maybe they should have interacted with the other boys and girls, develop a little coterie of toddlers… But they just stayed together. When the other boys and girls drew, they played with the blocks, and vice versa. Sometimes Sherlock would paint, and when he did, John would watch him. When John would open up a picture book and point, Sherlock was there, following along. They slept side by side during nap time and always ate their crackers and apple slices in the same order. They'd then go back to whatever they were doing, silently. 

Their mothers always picked them up at the same time every day, asking the same question.

"And how was today?"

"Good."

Weeks passed like this, and every so often, John and Sherlock would say a little more to each other. Sometimes it was, "Snack?" Other times it was "Spider book." They communicated in their own little way, and while their classmates were loud and grabby and excited, shouting for Ms Rachel's attention, John and Sherlock just floated along. 

One day, Ms Rachel and Ms Tabitha approached John and Sherlock as they lay in a pile of blankets, looking at pictures of dogs. 

"John, honey, Sherlock, sweetie, why are you all the way over here?" Ms Rachel's sticky lipgloss smile said. 

The boys exchanged a glance. It should have been obvious. They _wanted_ to be over here. 

Neither of them responded. 

"Don't you boys want to play with the other children?" Ms Tabitha kneeled down, glasses askew. 

Sherlock looked her right in the face and said nothing. John ignored them.

The teacher exchanged a look with her assistant before she said, as nicely as she could, "You should meet the other children. They - "

"We don't want to," Sherlock interrupted.

"Er… Well, they want to meet you…"

"Why?" John snarked, flipping the page to reveal a bulldog.

"Because you're classmates! John, Sherlock, please just introduce yourselves or I'll have to…"

Sherlock, for a three year old, had frighteningly intelligent eyes, and when he turned them on his teacher, she had no choice but to look directly into them. "They're boring."

"Now, that's not very nice…"

"I know." 

"Sherlock, please just say hello to Greg and Molly and Sally and Phillip - they want to meet you."

"Why?" John asked again.

"Because they just do! Okay? Go over there right now."

"No." The boys said.

"No snack time if you don't."

"No."

"No toys, either!"

"No."

"I'll tell your mothers…."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, and John closed his book. "Fine."

They then both uncurled from the blankets and walked over to the other children calmly. The boys approached with scowling faces, Sherlock's pudgy cheeks even pudgier in a frown. His curly dark hair mismatched John's light tufts, and as he stood just an inch or two above John, they complimented each other nicely.

Greg nudged the girls and Phillip to attention and clumsily wiped his chestnut-colored bangs out of his eyes.

The Holmes boy spoke for them both. "I'm Sherlock. This is John. Hello. Goodbye."

He then turned back around and walked across the small room and back to his blanket cocoon, John on his heels. 

Ms Rachel and Ms Tabitha sighed and shook their heads.

At the end of that day, Ms Rachel held up Victoria and Elizabeth as Ms Tabitha collected the little ones.

"Mrs Holmes, Mrs Watson, I'm worried your sons don't get along with the other children."

Victoria crossed her arms, "They're just shy."

"No, I think they just aren't social."

Elizabeth mirrored her friend, "What's wrong with that?"

"Well, children need to be around other children to learn social skills. The other children play with each other, in a group, but John and Sherlock just sit off to the side."

"They have one another to play with," Victoria said. She'd watched this happen with Mycroft, although he didn't have someone to hide with him. Honestly, though, he turned out just fine.

"Codependency this young might not be so…"

Elizabeth Watson looked at the woman skeptically, "Don't you want our kids to develop relationships?"

"Yes, but - "

"John and Sherlock have known each other all their lives," Victoria interjected.

"Well, all right, but they just - "

"I really don't see how this is a problem. If our sons are shy and just want to be together, that's not a bad thing." Mrs Watson looked at her companion. "Is it, Vic?"

"I don't think so. If they open up in the future, great, but for now, they're fine. Some kids are just different. Good day, Miss. We'll see you tomorrow."

And with that, the mothers turned, called their boys, and walked out, leaving Ms Rachel at a loss for words.

On the way home, the mothers broached the subject with their sons. With John and Sherlock in the middle, their mothers at their sides, they walked along the quiet street.

Victoria squeezed her son's hand. "Sherlock, why don't you want to play with the other children?" 

"Mycroft doesn't play with other children."

"Well, you're not your brother, now are you?"

"No."

"So why don't you want to?"

"I have John."

"Yes, that's true. You do have John."

Sherlock smiled at his friend, who smiled back openly. It was easier, when they were like this, than when they were around the other kids. It just felt different. Safer.

Elizabeth looked up at the sky, where silver clouds floated sweetly on the grey horizon. She then looked back down at her son, who she found had clasped Sherlock's hand. She smiled at it. 

"And John," she asked, "Do you not like your classmates?"

Her son looked up at her, eyes brimming with love and honesty. "They're all right. I'd rather be with Sherlock."

"Right. That's fine, honey, that's fine… But do you think, maybe tomorrow, you could be with Sherlock around the other kids more? Maybe sit with them, too?"

"And be nice," Victoria added, for Sherlock's benefit more than John's.

"You don't have to be best friends with them, but try to talk to them. Okay?" Elizabeth said, her hand holding John's left as his right held Sherlock's, where Sherlock's right was holding Victoria's. They made a happy little chain, a sweet little family of mothers and sons. 

Sherlock responded to John's mother then, "They won't be John."

"No, they won't. Nobody can be John. Right honey?"

"Right," John chirped at his mother, Sherlock in hand. 

"Okay. So just be nice and talk to the other children, at the end of the day, you can just be with each other. Good?"

"Good," the boys said.

Once that was settled, the next few weeks were more bearable. Ms Rachel and Ms Tabitha were somewhat satisfied by John and Sherlock's interactions with the other children, although with it came the undeniable fact that the boys were inseparable. When Molly wanted to give Sherlock a drawing she'd made, he showed it to John. If Greg brought his toy cars to class and asked if John had any, Sherlock was always right behind, giving Greg a stink eye over John's shoulder.

The boys never held hands at pre-school, but they always did on the walk home. It was so natural, and they were so trusted, that Victoria and Elizabeth walked behind, chatting pleasantly, as John and Sherlock lead them home. It was effortless.

The next year or two passed that way. They were one in the same, and while they definitely preferred to be together, sometimes they humored the other children and played with them. But they grew together, as did their imaginations, and soon they had their own language and code names. When they were four, they even created a fantasy world based on picture books with dragons, elves, shadow monsters, and gold treasure. They huddled away together, planning what their roles would be in that world, and all the other children knew not to bother them. 

As glued together as they were, the boys were comfortable enough to know when to pay attention to Ms Rachel and learn whatever there was to learn. Afterwards, of course, they'd immediately go back to their world. It may have been "codependency," but neither the boys nor their mothers saw anything wrong with it, and by the time it was time to move on to primary school, both the Holmeses and the Watsons knew that their sons would do well as long as they had each other.

Nobody planned to separate them anytime soon, so there was no problem. 

By the time they were five, they were changing classrooms and gaining classmates. Their mothers told them it would be different, and there would be more time to learn and less time to play, but John and Sherlock weren't scared. They knew how it went. As long as they paid attention or whatever at school, they would be able to go to one of their houses and play afterwards. 

The most incredible thing of it all, Victoria and Elizabeth found, is that they never seemed to tire of each other. Sometimes they argued, but they were back to normal soon enough. They developed this way and grew as one. They grew as John and Sherlock. Not one without the other, not Sherlock and John and Greg on the side… Just them. Two boys, two friends, prepared to take on the world, hand in hand. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the fluffiest shit of my life, I can't believe it. Sassy and stubborn toddlers who only want to be around each other... I'm dying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They just went on and on, happiest they had ever been and might ever be, innocent and spirited in their frolicking.

Primary school. It didn't seem too difficult, from what their mothers had told them… Just a lot of following the rules and, later on, finishing assignments and taking exams. John and Sherlock whined about the exams, when it was explained to them, but their mothers assured them that they wouldn't come any time soon. This first year, they said, would just be a lot of shapes and colors and letters. 

Obviously, they were right. That first day, John and Sherlock walked side by side into their new classroom, matching school uniforms dressing them up just like all the other children. 

The boys took in the new sight. The room was dressed with art and toys like their pre-school room, but it was definitely larger. Most notably was the stretch of blackboard that claimed one wall. It was freshly washed, not so much as a grubby fingerprint on it. On another side, there were blocks and stuffed animals placed prettily around a filled bookcase. Off to one corner was a little kitchen set with a plastic sink and a wooden microwave oven. A few small tables and chairs matched it, and Sherlock was itching to carry the blocks from one side of the room to that table and set them up. Adjacent to the kitchen was the art space, where three canvases sat, untouched, with fresh paint and supplies in the little wooden tray.

Really, it wasn't too different from their first classroom, but there was definitely something more official about it. Maybe it was the higher amount of nervous, wiggly bodies around them, or maybe it was that looming blackboard.

Either way, John and Sherlock were dumbstruck and stood frozen as the boys and girls jostled them around with excitement. Many of them went to sit on the large rectangle carpet in front of the blackboard. They plopped their chubby bums down onto a colorful square and continued to look around. The boys followed, finding their legs and shuffling towards it, casting curious eyes at the different pictures and colors on each small square. The pushy children had claimed their spots, glowing with smugness at getting what seemed to be the "best" square. The Watson boy and his friend chose squares in the back, on a heart and an iguana, and poked and prodded each other until their teacher appeared and clapped her hands.

The childish chitter died down as the final kids found spots and turned their round faces to the plump woman. Short and stacked with soft curves, the woman was pleasant with a long red braid falling down one shoulder. She was much nicer looking than Ms Rachel, and the boys found themselves already more comfortable in looking at her motherly face and simple blue skirt.

She stood in front of the blackboard and gave a little speech, most of which went over the kids' heads. Sherlock picked out some words like "educate" and "familiarize," which sounded big and fancy. John nudged him to pay attention to _him_ instead, and the words turned back into noise.

When she was done, she pulled a guitar from behind her chair and settled in to teach a song. John liked the guitar because it had one dark, shiny patch in the shape of a bean on the front. The song was pleasant and simple; it was about morning birds greeting each other. She taught them the words and the included hand gestures until the classroom chimed with young voices. It was a good start, the boys decided, and they felt more sure of what was to come after sloppily singing along as best they could.

The next few weeks passed easily. Victoria and Elizabeth would walk them to school, and upon arrival, John and Sherlock would find their spots and sit and talk. Well, talk in their way.

They planned what to do during play time, since they had to claim the stations early, else another group would beat them to it and never give it up. The end of the day always ended in looking at picture books, huddled together by the bookshelf, as they had in pre-school. John and Sherlock also always paired up during activities, and unlike Ms Rachel, Ms Josephine didn't seem to mind their codependency.

Mrs Josephine was soft spoken and kind and cheerful, but not in the false way that Ms Rachel had been. She was genuine and pretty and glad, teaching the pointy hats and round bellies of letters with glee and sweetness. When the children got confused and didn't copy her loopy strokes from the blackboard onto their own little copies, she was patient and understanding. And during play time, they were allowed to roam about freely. Sometimes, when the weather was good, she let them go out.

John and Sherlock were playing in the dirt one day when Greg toddled over.

It was a good day to play, they'd decided, and the dust clumps were far more interesting than their classmates. Of course, some of their classmates were more interested in them, inspecting as if they were zoo animals. That was always the case, it seemed.

"Hey," the not-Sherlock boy said as he plopped himself down beside them, stumpy legs spreading out around a little mound of dirt. "You guys wanna play?"

"Not really," John responded as he let the brown dust swirl off his fingertips. 

"We're already playing," Sherlock added. He scratched up a small stick and happily used it to deepen his hole.

"You're weird." Greg said, glassy eyes darting over Sherlock's shoulder to where his coterie sat in the grass, watching and giggling.

Sherlock snapped his eyes up, stick cracking in half with the force of his fist. "We're not weird, you're weird!"

Greg shrugged. In all honesty, he didn't find anything particularly strange about the boys, but the others did, and it seemed their pleasant interactions from the year before disappeared as their summer holidays had come and gone. Since a few of the kids seemed to follow him around, Greg was elected unofficial leader and was sent to talk to Sherlock'nJohn. He poked a hole in his mound nervously as the silence continued. He looked back up at his gang.

Seemingly satisfied with the interaction and getting bored with it, Phillip and Charles turned away and resumed pulling up the grass. Greg then took this opportunity to _really_ talk to them - maybe even get them to like him.

"Maybe I am weird. Maybe we're all weird. What's wrong with that?"

Imitating his mother, John responded quickly without looking up, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong with that."

"What do you want, _Gavin_?" Sherlock spat, beaming at John's chuckle.

"I want to be your friend."

" _They_ don't want you to." The five-year-old Holmes boy bowed his head towards his dusty uniform trousers. He knew quite well that some of the children didn't like him and John, and while he didn't particularly mind, Greg was definitely not the worst of them, and it hurt to know that he was just going along with it. Also, how could anyone not like John? 

Greg clapped his hands, dust clouds puffing around them. "I don't just do what they tell me."

Sherlock huffed, disbelieving. He was about to retort when his friend spoke instead. 

"What do we get?" John bartered, still engrossed in doodling spirals in the dirt.

"What?"

"What will you give us if we let you play with us?" Sherlock added, an extension of John's thought. 

Greg's dark eyes widened, "Er…"

Sherlock took the moment of awkward silence to ponder, his grubby fingers smudging his face with dirt. He reckoned they only had a little bit of play time left, so he had to think of something quick. And, honestly, he wouldn't mind having someone else to play with sometimes… As long as John was still there. "Your book. We get to have the book you take out this week." He hoped John would find this acceptable.

"This is silly…" Mr Lestrade's son mumbled into a handful of dirt.

John Watson spoke up, finally looking up and straight into the other boy's face. "Yeah. Then you can play with us."

"Sometimes." Sherlock reminded.

"Sometimes," John agreed. 

"Er… All right." Greg once again looked over Sherlock's shoulder at his gang, who was now starting to wonder what was taking him so long. Sherlock noticed this and offered one final quip.

"When they can't see."

That assured the five-year-old well enough, and he stuck out a dirty palm to shake on it. He saw some police guys on telly do it and wanted to try it. Sherlock momentarily stared at his hand, not because he didn't understand it, but because he didn't think it was that type of transaction. 

To John, apparently, it was, and he clasped the fat fingers with his own, shaking it jovially. Then Greg stood up, the seat of his trousers dark with dirt, and waddled back over to his mates.

John and Sherlock looked at each other and silently agreed that it was a strange turn of events, but they got another book out of it, so it wasn't all bad. 

* * *

In the middle of September, Sherlock's parents surprised him with a present.

All family, save for Sherlock, lounged about the living room in preparation. Mycroft pouted.

"Why should he get a present, he's only five! I'm almost thirteen!" 

"Yes, you're almost thirteen, which means you'll be getting lots of other things soon enough," Charles had said. It resulted in a playful smack on his thigh from his wife. He chuckled at her before correcting himself, "This is for Sherlock to get through primary school happily. And the rest of life, really."

Mycroft Holmes sagged his shoulders dramatically. "But he has John!"

Victoria stood from the couch and rubbed his back, cooing, "Oh, Myc, don't be jealous. Be the big brother, let him have this."

With a huff, Mycroft turned his pimply face away and stormed out of the room, muttering something about it being a lousy gift anyway. His parents just watched him go before smiling at each other knowingly. They could understand Mycroft's complaint, but they were sure that Sherlock would find the gift incredibly charming.

Naturally, as was anything Sherlock's family produced, it was.

One fall evening, Sherlock's parents had called him in from his room. He galloped down the long staircase, clad in alice blue pyjamas, innocent grin tight against his round cheeks. For once, John wasn't over, and instead was taking care of baby Harriet (as best he could). 

Sherlock's cheeks turned pink as he hustled through the kitchen and clambered up onto a chair, leaning with palms flat on the dining room table, turquoise eyes gleaming mischievously at the large white box before him. 

His father and mother appeared regally, beaming at him. "Now, Sherlock… We think you'd do well with something like this, but know that it's a big responsibility, and you'll need to come home every day after school to play with it." Mr Holmes said, handsome face crinkling in a smile from the end of the table. Mrs Holmes leaned into him with her arms crossed. They were a lovely couple, and they loved their sons very much.

Sherlock raised his excited eyes at them, childish wonder immediately warming his parents' hearts. "Can John play, too?"

"Yes, John is always welcome, honey," Mrs Holmes said. "Now, go on, open it!"

And then Sherlock was almost lunging across the table, knees on the white lace spread. His grabby little hands ripped the perforated lid from the box, and before he could even see inside, it was all fur and tongue and paws.

The boy's stomach dropped in surprise but his face warmed as the new puppy licked it. He giggled and squeaked and tried to hold the wiggly pup as his parents looked on. When he finally found its small body and pushed it away from him, he looked at its happy face.

The Irish setter pup panted, pink tongue twitching against deep brick-colored fur. Sherlock stared on for a long time, understanding the pure excitement and love in the dog's loopy smile more than anything he'd seen before. A warm voice broke him from his moment, however, when his mother asked how he liked it.

"I love him!" 

"What do you want to call him?" His father added.

The boy thought for a moment, but just a moment. If this new friend would be around to adventure with at any time, he'd need to be willing to sail the seas. "Redbeard!"

His parents hummed with pride. "Redbeard it is, then. Welcome to the family."

Redbeard jumped up again, and this time Sherlock pulled him close to his thrumming heart and laughed as he licked at his ears and neck. A soft presence at his side spoke again as his mother's delicate hand pet the pup. 

"You'll take care of him, won't you?" His mother asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock shrieked as Redbeard bit his ear.

"Feed him, bathe him, run him all over…" Sherlock's father added, now contributing to playing with Redbeard and letting him nip his finger.

The puppy had calmed down a bit now, and was mostly just sniffing Sherlock's curls, which were damp from his bath. "Yeah, yeah definitely. I will."

"All right," Mrs Holmes concluded, "Make sure you do. We can't be around to take care of him for you."

"All right, I got it!" he would have been snarky about it, but he was too excited. A puppy! A real dog! He'd knew all about them from the book he and John looked at, and he found this breed so regal and fascinating.

Charles and Victoria then retracted their involvement and moved so Sherlock could look at them, puppy still flung over his shoulder. "Be good to him." Charles told Sherlock with serious eyes.

"And you," Victoria pointed at Redbeard's wiggly bum, "Be good to him."

* * *

It was snack time when Sherlock told John about Redbeard. He would have told him earlier, on the walk to school, but he wanted a dramatic reveal. His mum must have mentioned something to John's mum, because as they sent them off for the day, Elizabeth smiled at Sherlock and told him to have fun with his new friend. John was oblivious to the comment as he was already waddling towards his iguana square. 

Then, during snack, John was working on celery and peanut butter when Sherlock leaned in, strawberry yogurt on his breath, and said he had a surprise.

John buzzed with excitement. They rarely ever had surprises that the other didn't immediately know about, even in their small little world of school and play. "What is it, what is it? I wanna know!"

He wanted to hold out, he really did, but John's wide eyes were so blue, and his sticky peanut butter mouth was hanging open, so he had to comply. "I got a dog," Sherlock whispered.

"You did!?" John shouted. Mrs Josephine gave them a curious eye, so Sherlock tugged him back down and into his bubble. John got yogurt on his sleeve as a result, but this was important business, and John hadn't noticed.

"Yeah! Last night. His name is Redbeard."

"What kind, what kind!?"

"Irish setter."

"The red one?!"

"The red one."

John glowed. It was about time something interesting happened. "Can we play with him?"

Sherlock smiled, oblivious to how, if they'd been older, John's assumption of access to the dog would have been forward and possessive. But they were five, and none of this occurred to them. Only each other and the dog existed, and both were more than ready to play. "Yeah, at home. We gotta go fast, so he's not lonely."

"No, not lonely! Today?"

The other children must have caught wind of their furious whispers and elated buzz because a few of them had locked eyes on the hunched two as they suckled the remaining sweetness off their fingers. 

"Today. In the back."

"Wow," John breathed, "A dog!"

"Yep."

"Is he cute?"

"Yep. And wiggly."

John leaned back then, dragging the yogurt with him. "I wanna play now!"

"I know, just wait 'til we get home." Sherlock meant his home, of course, but it was all the same to them. 

There was nothing left to say except how excited they were and how if John had a dog he'd want a bulldog, so they chittered and chattered a bit until Mrs Josephine called for clean up and pointed out the yogurt on John's sleeve.

* * *

Finally, after anxious energy and thrill, the school day ended and John and Sherlock were free to rush to Sherlock's house. Their mothers barely had time to call on them as they ran past, stubby legs carrying them as fast as they could. Victoria and Elizabeth shared a confused glance before pinning down their purses and hats and rushing after them.

About halfway up the street, Sherlock and John grew tired and flopped onto the sidewalk. Their mothers caught up to them in a huff, laughing and scolding them all at once. The boys promised not to run off without them again, and after the guarantee that they'd be allowed to walk home alone when they were older, they stood up with wobbly knees and took their mothers hands.

The whole way up to Sherlock's house, Sherlock talked about the dog. Victoria loved to hear him go on and on, even if parts of his speech weren't necessarily coherent. However, she admitted to feeling sorry for both Sherlock and Redbeard - they had to go so long without each other. She knew that having pets was difficult when the house remained empty for more than half the day, but she supposed after school, weekends, and holidays would be have to be good enough.

Once at the front steps of the splendid house, the boys were nearly wetting themselves with glee. Victoria unlocked the house and stayed back with Elizabeth as John and Sherlock rushed inside, yelling something indistinguishable. 

The mothers just laughed, resting their legs and watching as the little figures went straight through the foyer and kitchen and directly to the meadow in the back.

Sherlock and John found the puppy in a large kennel on the porch, shaded and cozy and well supplied with food and water. Sherlock knocked lightly on the roof and cooed, "I'm home, Redbeard. Come out! It's time to play!"

John's breath hitched as the pup's face came into view with his little black nose and floppy, crimped ears. Sherlock said hello as Redbeard leapt to be picked up. The boy complied and took his dog into his arms, immediately receiving kisses and nips on his face.

The moment was incredibly innocent, really. Two friends standing silent, watching as the puppy squirmed for attention. A light breeze passed the porch and grassy plain, ruffling Sherlock's dark curls and Redbeard's soft rusty coat. John looked on at how his friend rubbed his face against his dog's, laughing sweetly. If John had known any better, he'd have understood this to be one of his favorite memories, just being with Sherlock at his home, itching with delight in knowing that he'd get his turn to play. 

Sherlock, too, would find this to be one of his favorite moments with John - and there had already been plenty.

Finally, the Holmes boy turned towards John and shuffled forward, beckoning him to pet the dog. John put out a careful hand, to which Redbeard immediately licked. John laughed like a child, light and sweet, as he moved his hand to pet down the dog's shoulders and back. 

Redbeard seemed to like John well enough, so after that, the boys fell into play easily. They ran through the grass with the puppy, tumbling down and rolling around in the meadow, Redbeard close behind and jumping onto one of the boys' chests. Sometimes he'd climb all over Sherlock, at which John would just watch and laugh, track his fingers through the air to get Redbeard's attention and call him over. Then it was Sherlock's turn to watch, and he rolled onto his stomach and scratched the pup's tailbone as he snuffled through John's armpits and chin. 

They played through every wave of exhaustion, perking up again as Redbeard barked and nipped at their fingers. They pet and played with the dog, happy and breathless, until the sun began to set. 

John and Sherlock didn't notice this of course, nor did they notice how their mothers had appeared in the doorway to watch them. They were lost to that childhood magic of playing the afternoon away, oblivious to the creeping golden dusk and hunger pains. They just went on and on, happiest they had ever been and might ever be, innocent and spirited in their frolicking.

And, honestly, when a puppy and a best friend are involved, there's nothing better, is there?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ENTER REDBEARD]  
>   
> I'm not even much of a dog person, but I could really feel Sherlock's love and excitement. And lmao at how John and Sherlock continue to be trash children who don't hang out with anyone else. ALSO that last scene is so fluffy with childlike romance that I cry to think what happens in canon...
> 
> P.S. I will be away without internet for a week, and this year I decided against taking up my laptop, so I won't be working on chapter 4 until I come back! I just need a break, I think. stay tuned, tho!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The look of horror on an annoying classmate's face was always worth the consequence.

Second year. Things had become just a bit more interesting. In the classroom, there was less introduction and more discovery. Sherlock was fascinated with the science lessons, learning how the flowers grow and at one point, housing butterflies and watching them stretch their delicate, new wings. He was also quick in maths, which could partly be attributed to Victoria and Mycroft, who'd had him counting since he was a toddler. He didn't have trouble in academics, not one bit, but John wasn't as lucky. He wasn't slow, actually quite smart, but sometimes he seemed to have better things to do than pay attention to the simple lesson. Most of those things included teasing Sherlock.

Their new teacher, Mrs Finnerty, was stricter than their last, and always shushed Sherlock when John bugged him. This, in turn, earned John a glare, intelligent eyes sharp and cold. They always softened after the lesson, of course. 

Besides the differences in curriculum, John and Sherlock found that second year was distinct in the sense that there were more things to think about. Now that Greg sometimes played with them, they had to factor in his opinions, and often, his playground reports included the opinions of his other friends. 

He'd go on and on about which boys thought John needed a new haircut and which girls thought Sherlock was cute. Neither of the boys cared, obviously, and at one point Sherlock even told Greg to quit it, else he wouldn't be able to keep playing with them. Greg stopped after that, and the cops and robbers type games continued without a fuss. 

After school, of course, John and Sherlock would play with Redbeard and lounge around Sherlock's room, acting out scenes with his toys or spying on Mycroft. Sometimes they'd come up with plans on how to prank the most irritating boys the next day at school, which Sherlock could perfect with his hypotheses. One of these ideas had actually turned into a plan, and the boys were giddy in their mischief as they planned to do it the next day at school.

Eager to get started, they came rushing down the stairs and ravaged the cupboards for ingredients. Victoria and Elizabeth, who'd be having tea and biscuits, just shook their heads and watched them toddle off again, arms full of supplies. 

When morning came, with their backpacks stuffed tight, John and Sherlock padded on ahead of their mothers, down the street and ready to carry out their prank.

At school, they played it cool. None of their classmates noticed any troublesome energy. 

Neither of them mentioned anything to each other until Sherlock whispered to John before they took their spots at their tables. He said that they'd do it during their weekly stretching time. John just nodded and giggled because Sherlock's breath tickled his ear. 

Inconspicuously they resumed normal activity. A few lessons, a bit of laughter, and then, in the late morning, they removed their shoes like everyone else and scrambled with the other children to the carpet. The boys and girls in their class started stretching along with their teacher, and once Mrs Finnerty was satisfied that they were behaving, she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. 

This gave John and Sherlock their window of opportunity. Soundlessly, they sneaked away from the circle and to the cubbies, where all the children's shoes lay. They fumbled around for their supplies, giggled some more, shushed each other, and pulled out tupperware filled with milk and flour. John had to cover his mouth as Sherlock poured the sticky, wet mixture into Phillip's shoes. The boys watched the white, clumpy liquid settle against the leather until the very last drop.

Sherlock was putting away the empty container, devilish smile contorting his plump cheeks, when he heard their names called. The cubbies had hid their activities from the other students, so John and Sherlock could creep around the corner as if nothing had happened. The whole class was staring at them, and John felt his stomach churn. 

His friend, however, seemed unfazed. He spoke without being prompted, "John had to check something."

"And you had to help him?" Mrs Finnerty scowled.

The eyes of their classmates burned red into John's cheeks. 

"It concerned me," Sherlock said effortlessly. His vocabulary had always been bigger than that of the other children, and while John found it impressive and wonderful, he caught a few of the other kids roll their eyes. He wanted to sneer at them, but Sherlock just stepped ahead and lead John back, as if nothing had happened.

Mrs Finnerty squinted at them through her glasses. She watched as they took their places and let out an exasperated sigh when the duo just blinked at her innocently. "All right. Just know not to leave during an activity, okay?" 

The boys nodded, mischief hidden behind their sorry smiles. 

So stretching continued, and John and Sherlock were paragons of good behavior. They followed along silently, rolling their spines and stretching their arms with vigor. After the forty minutes was up, the students were directed to put their shoes back on and come back to their tables to work on group projects.

Sherlock and John shared a look. They didn't get up. They just… waited.

Apparently, Phillip was so eager to start on his project that he didn't even glance once at his shoes before he was cramming his small, socked foot into one of them. A wail came from behind the cubbies just as John and Sherlock were standing to retrieve their shoes. Anderson cried and cried as the other kids shoved to get a look of what happened.

The culprits just sneaked by, got their own shoes, and took their spots at the far table, smiling. 

The hysteria didn't die down for the next few minutes, and John and Sherlock took the time to start their project, calm and confident. John swore he saw Greg give them a smug smile from his spot by the bookshelves, but he couldn't be sure.

* * *

At the end of the day, Mrs Finnerty had a talk with John and Sherlock's mothers. The boys stood behind them, looking as small and innocent as possible. 

Snippets like "prank" and "not in good fun" and "ruined poor Phillip's new shoes" and "nuisance" cut through the air like knives, but John and Sherlock wouldn't take back what they'd done for all the snacks in the world. Phillip only got what he deserved. Maybe he never harmed them _directly_ , but he just… _existed_. That was irritation enough. 

Victoria and Elizabeth looked down at their sons with a scolding eye before speaking for them. "I'll talk to him," they said. 

"See that this isn't the first prank of many!" Their teacher said, before turning back with a huff and consoling Anderson, who was still upset. His small eyes were red and puffy and Sherlock tried not to snicker at it.

A tense minute passed before the mothers ushered their sons out and turned to them. 

"Why, Sherlock?" Victoria asked.

The boy shrugged. "He deserved it."

"What did he do? Did he bully you?"

"He looks at us like we're different."

"Honey, you and John _are_ different," Elizabeth offered, with a tone that cast her as if she was Sherlock's second mother. 

The sentiment was soft and Victoria understood that her friend meant no harm by it. She glanced at the pretty woman's profile with love in her eyes before turning back to her scowling son. "There's nothing wrong with being different, Sherlock."

He huffed. John nudged him with his shoulder as a form of support. 

The four them were off to the side, under a tree, as the rest of the children and their parents passed by. Mrs Holmes and Mrs Watson squatted in front of them, hands running up and down their arms in comfort. They didn't see Phillip Anderson's mother give them a dirty look, sloppy shoes in hand.

"Promise me you won't do it again," Victoria said, brunette curl fluffing across her cheek in the wind.

Sherlock made no such promise. She could have expected that. 

John stayed quiet, but his mother looked sternly at him just the same. 

It was silent and powerful as if John and Sherlock were waving a flag of revolution. Respectfully, of course, since they loved their mothers very much.

The women shared a glance before sighing. The boys were impossible. 

Elizabeth offered the last word. "Just… try and keep out of trouble, okay?" 

To this, Sherlock nodded, and John copied him. Then their mothers kissed them both on the cheeks, one after another, and stood. They ruffled their hair and pushed them along. 

"Time to go home," Victoria hummed. 

* * *

The incident wasn't brought up at all in the following months. Sherlock and John were still planning other pranks, of course, but these would have to be less obvious. Maybe they'd pour salt in one of the other boy's milk or drop a handful of ants down a girl's school uniform. They'd be caught, they always would, since from then on they were known as the pranksters, but they didn't care. They'd have to just do it after school or during play time. They'd figure it out. The look of horror on an annoying classmate's face was always worth the consequence.

School continued on, with more dirty looks from Anderson and his gang than ever before, but neither Sherlock nor John minded. Greg still played with them sometimes, which earned him official ejection from Anderson's company. He didn't seem to mind, really. John knew, from that smug look before, that he was proud of them for the prank and probably would have done the same thing if he'd had more skill and confidence.

Life was good. Redbeard was good. Books were good. Food was good. It was a simple life, and John and Sherlock stayed attached at the hip when they could. Of course, now that they were a bit older, they could spend more time apart. When they weren't placed at the same table or group, they wouldn't throw tantrums like they would have in pre-school. They knew they'd be together soon enough, and it was all fine.

Naturally, they grew more independent while maintaining that closeness.

It was late in March when what they were to each other was actually discussed for the first time. 

Sherlock was painting a portrait of Redbeard on a canvas beside Molly. She was painting a princess, but had only the background and blobby pink dress so far.

Like their previous classrooms, this one had an art space. It seemed their school was happily supplied with creative outlets, and for this, Sherlock was grateful. He loved books and lined paper and experiments, but sometimes he just wanted to draw. It gave him a different sort of peace than maths did. So today he indulged in art, taking an empty canvas during free time. Molly had joined him soon after, asking if she could. He only grunted, but she'd already started setting up her paints. 

He didn't particularly dislike her, but he didn't like her, either. On numerous occasions, Greg and a few other classmates had told him that she liked him. Again, he only grunted. They pressed on. Apparently she _liked_ him. 

"And?" Sherlock had responded a few weeks prior as they gathered around his table. His hands were busy with doodling purple vines over John's fingers, and he didn't acknowledge them otherwise.

"Well, don't you like her?" 

"Not particularly."

John shifted under his hands and Sherlock looked up at him. He seemed to be concentrating hard on the vines, thin blond brows furrowed, but Sherlock could tell he felt uncomfortable with everyone crowding them in.

"Go away," Sherlock added then, eyes still on John. He looked up and into Sherlock's face, relieved.

The girls just shrugged and left, muttering amongst themselves. 

It was no surprise then, when Molly tried conversation with him as they painted.

Sherlock gave a few half-hearted hums as she did, but remained focused on the reddish-brown mix of Redbeard's coat. John was somewhere else, so Sherlock couldn't ignore her and talk to him instead. 

Often, after spurts of talking for ages, she went silent. Sherlock would then steal a glance at her to calculate what her expression meant. Her short brown hair fell straight against her cheeks and her small mouth was pulled tight. Her blue patterned dress would have looked better if it wasn't so baggy around the middle, Sherlock thought. 

But he recognized her look of rejection and sadness, so he offered some words of attention, and she perked right back up. Her eyes were bright as she began babbling again. 

Sherlock turned back to his painting and feigned interest. He got a few strokes in as she kept talking. 

Suddenly, two arms were quickly wrapping around his middle and hugging him. Sherlock twitched in surprise and bristled when he felt a warm cheek on the back of his shoulder. His heart beat furiously, and he was rooted to the spot. He could feel Molly's eyes on him and the person behind him, but he didn't dare meet her gaze.

"You're my best friend," John said into his shoulder, words unprompted but heavy with sentiment. 

Sherlock's stomach tightened. His friend's breath was warm and cut through his uniform shirt, but then it was gone, along with his arms. Sherlock huffed out the breath he was holding as the emptiness settled over him. 

Molly's mouth hung open, either in disgust at being interrupted or envy at not being allowed to do such a thing to Sherlock. 

He regained himself and gave her a small smile, mind blank and buzzing. Redbeard's round black eyes stared back at him knowingly.

* * *

A few days later, it was John's birthday. He was turning seven, which was a big deal for the both of them because their mothers had promised them that they could walk home alone as soon as he was. Victoria and Elizabeth had things to do, no doubt, and as the boys had walked home hundreds of times, they were sure they'd be fine as long as they were together.

There was a small reception at John's house that weekend, and John was wearing his best blue shirt and slacks, his blond fringe slicked back. He had been beaming all week. 

The living room had a few streamers here and there, and the kitchen was stocked with crisps, cookies, and hidden in the fridge, a cake. It wasn't grand, as it didn't have to be. The people who loved John were there and that was all that mattered. Some of the children from school, like Greg and a few of the other boys and girls who didn't dislike him, had stopped by with their parents for a bit, offered their congratulations, dropped off a small present, and disappeared again.

This was perfect for John because he didn't have to interact with them for long but still felt like enough people had paid attention to him. The pile of presents on one end of the dining room table grew slightly, although it wasn't big to start out. 

His father made an appearance and hugged John, wishing him well, but as the other kids started to filter in, he left again, leaving his wife and Mrs Holmes to host them.

Elizabeth was dressed in a pretty pink sweater and beige slacks, where Victoria adorned her usual dark colors, this time draped around her in a pretty, slim dress. They watched as the kids came and left, chatting quietly and laughing as Victoria told Elizabeth secrets about the parents who accompanied them.

As evening drew closer, Greg's father said that they should be going. Greg Lestrade had stayed the longest of all of them, talking to them and asking them if they'd like to go out to the park the next day. They agreed and spent the next hour or so planning what to play once there. They settled on robot pirates, but Greg's father bid them farewell and took him away before they could finish planning the end of the scene.

Sherlock and John were left then, in the kitchen, the pile of presents in front of John half unwrapped. 

He'd gotten a lot of toys, such as dinosaurs and boats and cars, but a few of the presents were more practical, no doubt chosen by the parents. He got a new notebook, new pens and pencils, and from Greg, a pack of dress shirts. From his parents, John had gotten a play gun and medical kit which he'd wanted for months, along with dog treats he could feed Redbeard. It was Sherlock's dog, obviously, but the families were so twined that it almost didn't matter. 

Mrs Watson's son was on his last present when darkness and quiet settled over the kitchen. She and Mrs Holmes were in the living room, drinking wine and talking about their favorite birthdays. Victoria's was her 24th, Elizabeth's was her 18th. 

Back in the kitchen, the boys were alone. Sherlock had been social all evening, but as they sat now, a weird reluctance crept over him. John noisily revealed the final present, a basketball, smiled wildly, and held it up for Sherlock to see. 

He nodded and gave a half-hearted smile, but his grin fell and his thinking face returned.

John's heart sank. Was Sherlock not having fun? He put the basketball away and turned to him. "What's wrong?" 

He didn't answer right away. The kitchen clock ticked on. The TV static from George Watson's bedroom rippled through the small house. 

Finally, Sherlock took a breath and looked straight into John's eyes. "Did you… Did you mean what you said?"

Confused, John asked, "What did I say?"

"You… You said I was your best friend." 

Sherlock looked so sad about it, and John was thoroughly perplexed. John took a moment to register that Sherlock was actually concerned about it. Something inside John hurt because of it. 

He was very still as he quietly responded. "'Course… 'Course I meant it." Sherlock sighed deeply and opened his mouth, but John cut him off, "Why would you think…?"

John's best friend shrugged. "You never said it before."

The birthday boy didn't believe that. He was sure he had said it, since it was more than true! Sherlock wasn't just his best friend, he was… Well, he was Sherlock! There was nobody like him anywhere, they were always together, they were basically brothers! How could he not have said it?

"Oh. Well… Well you are. 'Course you are. Sorry." 

It was a strangely heavy conversation for a seven-year-old and a six-year-old to have, but John and Sherlock were different, as the world had reminded them often. 

Sherlock looked a bit relieved, but his eyes were still on his hands. "You… You are too. My best friend." It was soft and small, but John could hear it clearly in the quiet kitchen. 

Something tense passed between them then, something without a name, something that probably shouldn't have been hanging around a child's birthday. But it was there anyway, and John cleared his throat to get it to go away. "Good," he added. He then changed the subject, "You wanna watch something?"

Sherlock took the opportunity John was giving him to get back to their natural, easy way. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, let's watch something."

They stood from the table and shuffled into the living room. Victoria and Elizabeth set their glasses down and welcomed them in. John and Sherlock settled between the two women and drew their legs up onto the couch. 

Serenity blanketed the four of them as the mothers wrapped their sons in love until the awkwardness from earlier had left completely, only family and friendship remaining. 

They watched John's favorite James Bond movie in the dark until the boys got sleepy and drifted off. Their mothers carried them up to John's room and put them to bed, kissing their foreheads before returning to the kitchen to eat the remaining candy and cake left over from the party.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some gay little kid shit right here. Nice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys teased girls, girls told them to bugger off, and John and Sherlock just stuck together, not really interested in making cards for anyone.

Another year, another batch of memories. John and Sherlock had been growing like weeds, and their mothers had to buy them new school uniforms to make up for their gained inches. Sherlock had gotten taller, where John had gotten stronger, and while they were still young children, they were less… _little_. At seven, kids often discovered how to get it together. They were now figuring out how to keep themselves still at dinner, how to run without tripping, and sometimes even, how to put themselves to bed. It was the prime age to be let loose with a friend, scrape up some knees, and explore. So, being perceptive mothers, Victoria and Elizabeth took them out on holidays.

Over the summer, Sherlock and John had gone adventuring, with Redbeard running ahead and their mothers trailing behind. They'd explored forests, rivers, and places in the town that Victoria suggested. It was so easy with the four of them, just visiting sweet shops and museums and war memorials, happy as ever. Sherlock and John only got into mischief on occasion, only cried sometimes, and fortunately, they'd kept their silly tiffs to a minimum. Mostly, they just wanted to see and _observe_ , learn how the world worked and gawk at the people snogging on public benches. It was a pleasant sort of newness, these adventures, and while the husbands certainly wouldn't have been _un_ welcome, as the boys grew, Victoria and Elizabeth shared something with the boys that George and Charles didn't. So they adventured on, until Sherlock, John, and the dog were all worn out and begging to go home.

The rest of the summer was spent as it always was: playing with Redbeard, teasing Mycroft, eating too many crisps and sweets, making fun of Phillip, and just generally enjoying life. Only once had the "best friend" question been brought up, and it had been when they were out and on their way to the park. Someone had told Victoria and Elizabeth that John and Sherlock were adorable, at which Sherlock looked up from petting Redbeard and shouted, "He's my best friend!" 

Sherlock's birthday in June reminded them of John's and how close they came to nearly losing the easy, unspoken connection they'd formed, but afterwards, it went unmentioned. The words were always present, and the weight of them made Sherlock and John wonder plenty of unsaid things.

But life went on. It was all fine. Year three had come and, as it always was, John and Sherlock continued to be inseparable. Which was truly no surprise as everyone in their previous classrooms now knew of both their pranking shenanigans and their friendship, and whenever one was alone, they knew the other was close by. 

This time when John and Sherlock met their new teacher and classroom, they were ready for it. Any consequences from the year previous had hardened them up into mischievous, smart little devils, and nothing could scare them. Well, except those stacks of textbooks around the place, thick and ominous.

Fortunately, it turned out to be fine. The boys used their notebooks to write notes, assignments, and a weekly journal as they were directed, and their first male teacher, Mr Embers, was thorough and clear in his lessons. Their thirst for knowledge, both in academics and the outside world, was satisfied by the balance of maths, history, science, geography, vocabulary, and everything in between, as well as the stories Mr Embers told about his days as a volunteer worker in a hospital, where he often met war veterans. This, John found incredibly interesting. 

This particular day, one of the other teachers had popped her head in Mr Ember's class as he was giving a lecture.Mr Embers was in his mid-thirties and charming, with slicked chestnut hair and dark, pretty eyes. 

"…And that's why bees are so important. Oh, hello Mrs Finnerty." He turned towards the door and acknowledged the older woman with a smile. Something about that smile always made Sherlock and John want to look at him for ages. They didn't really understand it, though. 

Sherlock and John's previous teacher peered around, inevitably causing the boys to shrink into their seats. "You're not telling the children stories again, are you?"

He chuckled and ran a tan hand through his hair, "No, no! Just going over pollination."

Her thin maroon lips crinkled dubiously as she said, "Save tidbits about your personal life for outside of the classroom, Barrett." Then she disappeared, clicking down the halls. Mr Embers let out a breath before checking to see she'd really gone and turned back to his students, who sat attentive and curious in their desks. 

"Anyway, like I was saying, this one time in the 70's, I met this fantastic old fart," the students giggled at the word, and their teacher paused before continuing. "He told me this story of meeting and falling in love with this totally fit, green-eyed nurse."

John and Sherlock perked up, they liked hearing these kinds of stories, although any and all affection directed at them was simply irritating. Mr Embers sat on his desk and smoothed his hands over his jeans.

"Her name was Keira, he said. He said that he'd been hurt during the first world war, his leg, I guess, and he was in the infirmary. That's the place they put the sick and hurt people for them to get better. Anyway, he thought it was all over, y'know, he was saying his prayers, thinking of his mother, wishing that they'd just get rid of his leg and he'd die of blood loss or something…"

A few children bristled then. Mr Embers cleared his throat, suddenly remembering he probably wouldn't want to mention inevitable death around third years. Sherlock and John looked extremely interested, though, as did Greg and Sally, so he pressed on, careful not to get too dark. 

"And he was lying on the cot, holding his grandmother's locket in one hand, when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. His vision was blurry from the tears and dust, but when the something came to stand over him, it looked like a figure, a person. He said a warm hand then came out and touched his cheek and wiped the grit from his eyes. When he found his sense of sight again, he said he was looking up at the face of an angel." He sighed, eyes closed, as if he could really see the woman. Then he opened them and went on, "He told me that he'd never seen anything as beautiful as her face, with her big green eyes and pretty skin. She promised to take care of him, and she did, but while she was mending his leg…" Mr Embers hesitated and looked out the window for dramatic effect. It was raining, as it often did in January. "…She also mended his heart."

Some of the girls sighed, along with a couple squeaks of delight. The handsome teacher chuckled. _Someone ought to read these kids more love stories,_ he thought. He licked his lips and took a breath before continuing, "While he was getting better, he talked to her all the time, told her all about his home, and she told him about hers. They had some things in common, it seemed. They both liked the same book that they read as children, I can't really remember what he said it was. They talked and talked until his leg healed, but by then, he'd already fallen totally in love with her. He told her this, and she loved him, too. They decided to elope. That means run away and get married in secret. The old guy told me he'd never been so sure of anything in his life, and he was sure that Keira felt the same way. And, well, isn't that just about the sweetest thing you've ever heard?"

Apparently, his story was over, and the children around Sherlock and John nodded, some of them still making happy noises. Sherlock wasn't content, though, he wanted to know what happened. He was about to raise his hand and ask, but Sally Donovan beat him to it. 

Screwing up her pretty brown face and tilting her head so her curls bounced, she said, "So? Did they get married and live happily ever after?"

Mr Embers grimaced and fumbled for words. Sherlock watched him intently. Finally, he responded. "Well, no… Once the old guy got better, he was shipped off again, and his girl had other soldiers to attend to. They… er… They never saw each other after that."

A collective groan (and a few gasps) swept over the classroom. John and Sherlock looked at each other in confusion. They hadn't heard a story like that that didn't end, well… happy!

Scratching the back of his head nervously, Mr Embers wondered if he should have lied, told them that it was fine and that the old guy hadn't been holding onto the fleeting romance his entire life, hopeless and sure he'd never meet her again. _Damn it, man! How hard is it to lie to children!?_

The students muttered amongst themselves until Mr Embers raised two pink palms and quieted them down. "All right, all right, that's enough. It's just a story. True love exists, I promise you. Sometimes… Sometimes it's totally new and catches you by surprise, and sometimes it's been there the whole time. Just… Keep that in mind as Valentine's Day is coming up, all right?"

Sherlock, John, and some of the other girls breathed a sigh of relief and watched as their teacher struggled to move onto the next subject. Clearly, they should go back to bees. 

Bees, a strangely appealing male teacher, an old wartime love story - it all piqued the boys' interest, and if they'd been older, they'd have known that this story and lesson would be very significant in developing their characters. 

The boys talked amongst themselves as Mr Embers pulled down the world map and began their geography lesson.

* * *

By the time it was February, the rain had relentlessly washed the streets of Wisbech clean. Redbeard loved to play in the puddles, as did John and Sherlock in their galoshes, but they missed the rare sun and couldn't very well play football in the backyard unless they wanted to catch a cold. Which they did, sometimes. Their mothers then would keep them apart if one of them was sick and other wasn't, which was totally _not fair._

The rain was the least interesting thing to them as the year progressed. Sherlock and John found that they loved to talk to Mr Embers and ask for more stories after class. He'd tell them a few, romantic or no, before shooing them off. They'd then walk home together in the rain and warm by the fireplace with Redbeard as they talked about how great their teacher was. They were completely oblivious to their little crush, but Victoria and Elizabeth weren't, and every time they ran up to them to report a new story, the women just chuckled behind their tea when they were gone and wondered if one day John and Sherlock would figure it out.

Then all of a sudden, Valentine's Day happened. The week surrounding it, Mr Embers let the children make Valentines cards and decorate the classroom in gaudy pink and red hearts. The previous years, there'd been a bit of celebration, but Mr Embers was clearly a sucker for romantic stuff, and he let the children go crazy. And besides, seven and eight-year-olds often had silly little crushes on their classmates, so it was a good a time as any to give them a chance to say it. 

Boys teased girls, girls told them to bugger off, and John and Sherlock just stuck together, not really interested in making cards for anyone. 

Of course, some of the girls had noticed John and Sherlock. The boys' pretty eyes or smart mouths had caught some attention, and before John knew what to do with it, a girl named Danielle with too many clips in her thin orange hair was shoving a sparkly, sticky heart in his hands, blushing, and running away. 

John blushed himself, feeling Sherlock's jealous eyes on him, before turning the Valentine over and seeing what it said. "Your not mine," it said, (Sherlock scoffed, she could have at least _tried_ to spell correctly), "But your cute anyways. Be my Valentine?"

He gulped, unsure of what to do, before he caught Sherlock shooting daggers at Danielle from across the room. She gave a scared peep and hid behind Molly, who had been watching the interaction. That seemed to be the end of it.

A few days later, on the actual holiday, Sherlock found a card in his notebook. It was light blue with dark blue designs and a white lace trim. It was a full card, folded and neat, with sparkly lettering on the front that said his name. His stomach twisted, and he blinked at it for a few minutes before he finally took it from his notebook and opened it. Inside was a message.

"Sherlock, you are Smart, Heroic, Exciting, Rational, Loyal, Original, Creative, and Kind. I'm glad I know you. Happy Valentine's. Be mine? Love, your eternal admirer." 

He read it and read it again, staring at the delicate cursive letters until they looked like shapes. Those words, all of which were some of his favorites, were describing him. He knew he was smart, but… Exciting? Heroic? _Kind? Admirer?!_ Perhaps only in his dreams, only on pirate adventures with John and his dog…

However disbelieving the boy was, the message wasn't lost on him, and the acronym rolled around in his overactive brain. His mother had described him in a similar way, but this was from someone he didn't know! Who could possibly think this of him? And more than that, sign it with "Love?" 

Sherlock swallowed and looked at the card again, searching for clues. It wasn't made in the classroom, the paper and designs weren't those of their supplies, and the handwriting… This was not one of his classmate's handwriting. It was too nice, too perfect, and in pen! It must have been someone's mother. Someone must have asked their mother for help to… "Make Sherlock a Valentine." It seemed so strange. He understood why John got one, but he didn't think _he'd_ get one. 

Still searching for answers, he looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Everyone was taking notes as Mr Embers went on, cool, deep voice curling 'round the tips of Sherlock's blushing ears. Nobody that counted was looking at him, not even John. Only Molly was looking at him.

 _Of course, Molly!_ Sherlock, satisfied at having found the answer, carefully slipped the card back inside the pocket of his folder and flipped to a blank page, quickly summarizing whatever Mr Embers was droning on about. 

Then, during recess, Sherlock disregarded John and rushed to where Molly was sitting with Danielle and another girl named Jen-something. They were picking the petals off flowers and chanting some riddle when Sherlock approached and rudely interrupted.

"Molly!" he said loudly. 

Startled, she turned pink, eyes wide. "Sherlock?"

Quickly, and with little finesse, he showed her the card. "Did you do this?"

"I - "

"Your mother helped you, the quality is too good for what Mr Embers gave us to work with. The content is _unique_ , but somewhat overdone."

"Sherlock - "

"A good attempt, however, I'm not really sure how to answer what you asked me at the end. What does 'Be mine' even mean?"

"Sherlock!" 

"Did you mean being your Valentine? What does _that_ mean? What are the actual duties? Is there rules somewhere? Do I have to spend time with you - "

"I didn't!" She snapped, finally getting through to him. Molly was covered in a sheen of nervous sweat, tears pooling around her sad eyes. Sherlock's stomach sunk at the sight, not because of Molly, but because of the pain in her face, and he was at a loss for words when she scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve. "I… I didn't make you that. Not… _that_ one. I did… make one."

She shuffled around in her bag and pulled out a pink heart that was covered in bee stickers. She looked at it for a moment before turning her head away and giving it to him, fingers trembling. 

Sherlock took it and looked between her friends as she sniffled. They glared at him until he walked away, confused and farther from a solution than ever.

He put the blue Valentine away and found John, so he went to him in silence. They sat as he read Molly's card. It was simple, "Bee my Valentine?" and Sherlock's face flushed in embarrassment. 

"Whassat?" John said, blue eyes on Sherlock's hands, mouth full of Valentine chocolate.

"Molly…" 

"Oh," John said, eyes sliding over to where she sat hunched, trying to regain herself. "Cool."

John sounded disconnected, and Sherlock felt bad about making Molly cry. What was worse was that he had no more ideas about the "eternal admirer." He supposed he'd just ask his mum, figure it out later. Right now he needed to talk to John and perk himself up.

* * *

That night, at Sherlock's house, his parents were hosting a small Valentine's party. Their house was decorated like his classroom had been, pink and red streamers hanging from the bannisters, hearts taped to the doors. Sherlock caught Mycroft prodding at the bowl of candy on the dining room table and rolling his eyes. He was fifteen and apparently wanted nothing to do with anything. 

Sherlock wandered through his house, sweet violin music drifting down the halls. He'd always liked his mother's old records, and on a number of occasions, she'd asked him if he wanted to start playing. He always responded with "Maybe later," but later seemed to get closer and closer to now, and Sherlock thought of picking up lessons soon. 

He entered the grand kitchen and watched his two families interact, John's and his. 

George and Charles were drinking pink, blended drinks and swallowing candy hearts by the handful while their wives leaned against the spotless counter and laughed, their own drinks in hand, slightly red hues to their cheeks. Surprisingly, Mycroft was actually around, off to one corner in the farthest room. Sherlock cocked his head to see what he was doing, which apparently, was lifting baby Harriet into his arms and letting her tug on his ears and wrap her chubby arms around his neck. He bounced her up and down and smiled at the weight of her. Sherlock was lucky he hadn't caught him watching, or he wouldn't hear the end of it.

It was weird seeing him act so soft and loving towards a child, someone else's no less, but if Sherlock had known better, which he didn't, he'd have seen that Mycroft missed holding Sherlock like that, as he sometimes had. Mycroft liked to feel the sleepy, warm, weight of a younger sibling in his arms, and little Harry seemed to like Mycroft just the same.

The house was warm and lively, and while nobody other than the neighboring families were invited, their quiet chatter and tipsy bodies, swaying to the violin music as they ate chocolate dipped strawberries and the like, was enough to make Sherlock feel like this is what a loving house was supposed to be like. 

He was still solemn, though, about the card and Molly. He didn't want to dwell on it, but there was something he didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. 

John appeared then, chocolate smeared on his lips, and sat beside Sherlock where he had hid, slumped in the sitting room against the settee, bum on the floor, back to one of the legs.

"How's it goin'?" John asked. He licked the chocolate off his fingers and wiped his mouth with his sleeve when Sherlock pointed at his lips. 

"I dunno."

"What don't you know?" 

Sherlock sighed and pulled out the card, which was slightly crumpled, from his trouser pocket. "Who gave me this."

John gulped and looked away. "Oh…"

"Yeah. I thought it was Molly. It wasn't."

"Do… Do you like it?"

"The card?"

John nodded.

"Yeah… Yes. I do." Sherlock hesitated.

John picked up on this and asked, "And?"

"It's just different."

"Different is good," John chanted. It was sort of like a religious affirmation to them.

Sherlock looked down at the card again. Some of the glitter had come off in his pocket and made his fingers sparkly. "I know. I just wish I knew…"  

Elizabeth appeared then, pink eyeshadow smudging off from her fourth Valentine's Day drink no doubt making her sloppy and forgetful that she was even wearing any in the first place. She looked silly and happy and had a little stain on her blouse, but she wasn't a mess, nor was she out of control. She just looked to have cut back with some strawberry margarita. Really, she deserved it, not just because of John and Harry, but as she had Sherlock as a sort of third child.

She stood in front of them and swayed a little bit. "Oh! Sherlock, John! We're gonna watch a sappy romance movie that Victoria… Hey, honey, you got the card John made for you? Isn't it sweet, he asked me to help him with the handwriting and the words and stuff, but otherwise it was all him! 'Eternal admirer.' I thought that part was very cute. Scootch over, okay?" And then she was clambering to sit between them on the floor and pulling them into her floral-scented breasts and neck, hugging them both and saying, "Happy Valentine's Day, boys, you're gonna have a great time one day."

Sherlock didn't really understood what she meant by that, but his heart was tender and his face felt hot at learning that John had made him the card. All those things he said, the words he used, the "I'm glad I know you," the "be mine," and the "eternal admirer…" They came from John.

It made sense, since John was the closest to him (he was _John,_ after all). Still, his best friend was barely ever vocal with what he thought of Sherlock and to know he thought so highly of him that he asked his mum for help, figured out some of Sherlock's favorite words, and sneaked it into his notebook was just overwhelming. 

Sherlock swallowed his embarrassment down as his mum sat on the settee, just above them. She lovingly stroked his head and leaned to pet John, too. Then, like the night of John's seventh birthday, they all settled in for a movie. 

Blushing and still gripping onto the blue Valentine, Sherlock leaned forward to peer around Elizabeth to look at John. He was pink in the face and nibbling on a cookie Victoria brought him. He glanced at Sherlock for half a second, nervously, before darting his eyes back to the screen.

Sherlock's chest felt tight and he found himself stealing looks at John from the corner of his eye as the black and white film started. He couldn't look away, knowing now that John had given him the card, complete with "Be mine?" and "Love, your eternal admirer." 

Elizabeth cuddled them in as Victoria sat above them, their husbands finishing the remains of the margaritas in the kitchen. 

Sherlock tried to pay attention to the movie, but John and that blasted card were on his mind.

He felt the same way thinking about being John's Valentine as he did when talking to Mr Embers after school: light headed and happy and hot in his face. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought the last chapter was too cute? This is literally the "Sherlock and John start to like boys" chapter. The fluff just keeps coming, get on my level. ;)
> 
> And a special thank you to [brokenlibrarygirl](http://brokenlibrarygirl.tumblr.com) for the suggestion of the Valentine's card! It set everything up wonderfully! 
> 
> P.S. Their mums know, oh my god, they totally know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John took every day like they should: an opportunity to learn new things and get excited about what they loved.

Sherlock and John's blushing, somewhat romantic energy existed between them all through the end of third year, and seemed to burn the hottest whenever one of them wasn't paying attention. Sometimes they couldn't tell when their faces were pink, or when there was butterflies in their stomach, because they were so used to it. 

The boys were sad when they had to say goodbye to the beloved Mr. Embers, however. He said he enjoyed having them in class, especially since they both stayed attentive and interested, no matter the subject. John and Sherlock hugged him, red in the face, on the last day, before rushing home. Summer once again came and went, and while there was little difference in the form of time spent together, much more of it was silly and flirty - well, as flirty as two eight-year-olds could make it. 

By year four, Victoria and Elizabeth were posing the question of after school activity and potential interests. They said that while it was great that they had the freedom to come home and see Redbeard every day, at some point, they should take up extracurricular lessons or sports. John and Sherlock spent a day and night in John's room, considering this. When they emerged in the morning, Elizabeth had made breakfast for them, and George was at the table, scowling into his coffee.

Mrs Watson said good morning and asked if they'd thought about what they had talked about the day before.

"I want to play sports," John said. "Football and rugby."

"That's wonderful, sweetie! What about you, Sherl?" 

"No sports. I want to learn to play the violin."

Elizabeth grinned, her tired morning eyes lighting up like they usually did when talking to her son and his friend. "Vic will be so glad to hear it!"

George Watson grunted and picked at his potatoes. He wasn't a morning person in the slightest, or perhaps it was that he disliked the squeak in his wife's voice when she talked about Victoria. Nobody knew, really. He did speak, though, and it took all three of them by surprise. "So is that what you'll be, then? A professional violinist?"

Mrs Watson caught the spite in his voice. He seemed to like Sherlock, but when he and John went to bed, he always grumbled that he was "too smart for his age" and that "people would get the wrong idea." His wife's bright eyes were now cold and angry as she addressed him. "George…" 

"I'm just saying, can't very well make a living off being a musician."

Elizabeth blocked him out. "Don't listen to him, honey, playing the violin is wonderful. Is there something else you're interested in, though? I see you like science experiments, and John tells me you're quite the little chemist at school."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, palms pressed together in prayer under his chin as he moved to sit at the dining table. John followed, hearts in his eyes at Sherlock's thinking pose. 

He parted his plump lips soundlessly before finally saying, "I think I'd like to be a pirate."

"A pirate!"

"Or a detective."

"A detective!"

Elizabeth's laugh was pretty and light as he closed her eyes and lay a hand over Sherlock's. The gesture was welcome and warm and Sherlock didn't feel any shame about his decision. He beamed when she looked him right in his eyes and said, "You can do it, Sherlock. You can be a detective. Or a pirate. The best anyone's ever seen! Because you're brilliant, you're brilliant and mad and passionate. I know you'll be great, whatever you do."

The small kitchen and dining table was then blanketed in a warm love, Elizabeth's support and motherly instinct causing Sherlock's stomach to twist and heart to thrum. Her words sounded so sincere and so true that he didn't know what to say back, and the silence settled in with the weight of a thousand promises. 

George grunted and ruined it, knocking the table rudely as he arose. He made a racket as he put his plate and cup away, then left with a huff, as if he was personally offended by how much his wife loved Victoria's son. Elizabeth sighed and retracted her hand. 

"What about you then, Johnny? What do you want to do?"

John gulped, face a bit pink as if he was still reeling from watching his mom say something so nice to Sherlock. He licked his lips nervously and looked between them before saying, "I like the war and stuff."

"John's really interested in the military," Sherlock added smartly, "Especially medicine and health practices."

Elizabeth smiled. Her son's friend was so well-spoken, she couldn't see how George resented it. "Yes, John has always had a little doctor inside him. Remember when you fell and scraped your knee, and he cleaned and bandaged it, Sherlock? It healed up in no time."

Sherlock remembered. He always remembered. 

"Mr. Embers says that they always need doctors in the wars. They fix up the broken soldiers," John added. It was a heavy job, no doubt, but to John, it was an honor.

His mother stood then, and took her own dishes back to the sink. "It's quite a job. Well, sweetheart, I think that's a fine thing to want to do. Serve your country, save lives, return home a hero. You'd be perfect for it." She began rinsing as she said, "But how about, until you can really get your hands on a wounded soldier, you play rugby and football and read up on all this doctor stuff, okay? You have to learn about it before you can do it. And you, Sherlock, you read up about crimes and experiments and detective business. Or sailing the seas, whichever. Now you two need to eat, so get something in your stomach before you go out today." 

The boys obeyed and began shoveling potatoes, toast, eggs, and fruit onto their plates from the plethora in the center of the table. 

That discussion with John's mother basically solidified their interests, although there were still some things to prepare for. Sherlock told Mycroft about wanting to be a pirate and his mother about the violin lessons. The detective dream he kept close to his heart, where only John and Elizabeth could find it. 

Meanwhile, John took his mother's advice and began looking into medicine, as well as training himself for after school sports. The rest of the summer was spent playing in Sherlock's backyard with his old football 'til sundown. Then the boys would retreat into the living room to read about crimes and illness. Their love of learning narrowed into their preferred subjects, but the excitement for life and new things remained.

* * *

Their fourth year teacher was a plain, slim woman named Ms Smith. She had pretty brown eyes and straight hair to match. She looked a bit like an adult Molly, and the two got along famously as the year progressed. Greg sort of had a crush on Ms Smith, it was obvious - he blushed every time she called on him and stuttered when he tried answering. 

John and Sherlock liked her well enough, though, and they especially liked when she brought muffins on Wednesdays. One time, John and Sherlock met with her after school and asked if they could have access to some of the books reserved for older students. She seemed surprised by their interest, but once she allowed it, their attention in her lessons sparked and she found them whispering over the books during recess. 

Sherlock basically knew everything there was to know about pirates, so he was proud and eager to study about detectives. He took any opportunity he could to ask Ms Smith questions about cases, mostly during recess. His teacher was surprised by his interest in homicides and suicides, but he didn't seem fazed by the dark content, so she always told him whatever she could. His eyes filled with wonder, Sherlock would begin to rattle off predictions about his future career. Ms Smith just watched him go, amazed at the intelligence and passion in her student. Sherlock's rant would often be interrupted by John, who would run in from playing scrap rugby with Greg and shout at Sherlock to come back out and play.

Life was fine, it was perfectly fine, and Sherlock and John liked it very much.

That is… Until Colton happened.

Colton Sherrington had come from the city and moved to Wisbech as his mother and father split. There were rumors that his father had been a drug abuser, and by consequence, abused his mother, which is why she moved out to the country. He was placed in Ms Smith's class in late September and stood at the front of the class as she introduced him. He was big for a child, a bit tall and a bit round, with a sunburnt face and coarse, mousy hair. When he smiled, he looked pained, which is why he didn't smile too often. He didn't look right in the light blue school uniform, as if he was already out of place. He was sent to an empty desk in the back, where he stayed quiet and awkward as the class continued with a lesson he knew nothing about. 

For Sherlock and John, life passed normally. The new student didn't influence their worlds, and they didn't influence his. Sherlock and John took every day like they should: an opportunity to learn new things and get excited about what they loved.

Unfortunately, a few weeks after Colton arrived, it was clear that he was different. Not different like John and Sherlock were different, as they'd already been established as a smart, tricky pair. Colton was different in that he wasn't part of a pair, and it would have been sad if he didn't growl and spit insults at any of the friendly girls and boys who approached him. Soon he was alone, of his own doing, and not even the friendly, down to earth John Watson wanted try to befriend him.

Indeed, John had gained a bit of popularity, as much as he could in primary school. He was getting into sports and made a bunch of new mates on his teams. With this, came attention from girls, which he already had, and while he wasn't interested in girls in _that_ way, it didn't hurt to have a few of them giggle when he smiled at them. 

In contrast, Sherlock was alone when John was at practice. He had followed through in taking violin lessons at school from one of the upper level professors, which proved to be easy enough as he grasped the concepts quickly. His mother had told the professor that Sherlock learned quickly, and the white-haired man soon believed her as Sherlock mastered reading music and stroking the strings with perfect care. 

One autumn day, John was scrimmaging with his team as Sherlock took his lessons. It was around four thirty when Sherlock finished, and he was beaming and lively from playing. He walked through the halls confidently with his backpack taut against his shoulders, a few upperclassmen strolling by with their dates and snickering at his nerdy look. He didn't mind, though, he was smarter than all of them, and he knew it. 

Sherlock exited through the back and walked through the courtyard on his way to the field. John's practice let out at five, so he always liked to watch him play until they could walk home together. 

He was minding his own business, thinking about John and what he'd be like if he was a violin song, when Colton called out to him.

"Hey, freak."

Sherlock used to be addressed as such, but never recently. All of his classmates had learned that his off-putting smarts and quick tongue were as much a part of him as John was, and they were used to it. Callousness and teasing wasn't so common for him anymore.

Colton didn't seem to understand this, though, and on the few occasions that Sherlock said something witty or smart in his direction, he must have took it as a personal offense. 

Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel in his direction. There was no point in ignoring him, really, and he didn't feel like shouting back, so he just looked at him for a moment before responding. The courtyard was deserted, save for Colton, who was leaning up against the wall of the building. Sherlock nodded to him, "Hello, Colton."

"Don't act like we're friends, Holmes. I know what you've been saying about me."

Sherlock was confused by what he meant, but it was the dramatic tone and menacing glare that tweaked his irritation. He tried not to roll his eyes. Colton was trying so hard to be intimidating that his presentation was laughable, tired, and cartoonish at best. And in regards to what he said, Sherlock truly didn't understand. He had barely spoken about him, certainly not in a negative way. Except to John, of course, when he and John were at home, but John never let their secrets out. Not ever.

The aspiring pirate didn't move from his spot, but Colton did, and he crossed the cement with surprising agility. "Say something," he barked.

Suddenly, Colton didn't seem so thoughtless. A lump formed in Sherlock's throat that made his small voice even smaller. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never - "

"You did, you did, Phillip told me! You said my mom's a punching bag and my dad's a druggie and I'm fucked up because of it." 

Sherlock's breath caught in his lungs, and it stung. 

 _A punching bag? A druggie?_ That certainly didn't sound like something he'd say, not in the slightest, and Colton's use of a swear word surprised him. Nobody but people on telly or John's father used that word. He knew what it meant, in most contexts, but it was pointless to use when you're eight. …Nine? _How old is he, anyway?_

"I don't talk to Anderson." 

Colton smelled like cheese and dust, and while there was a foot of space between them, it was definitely too close for Sherlock's liking.

"You _obviously_ do," he mocked, spitting out the word in the way Sherlock was known to. "You think you can just say something like that like it won't matter because you're _so_ smart? Because you talk to Ms Smith and ask her for special treatment? You think you can just float along by - nothing you do _means_ anything because you're the smart one! The teacher's pet!" He fists were clenched at his sides, teeth bared. Sherlock honestly had no idea where any of this was coming from, nor how he knew him, or what he was like. Sherlock had been laying low in the weeks after he came to school in fear something like this might happen. Of course, he hadn't toned down the smarts at all, only took pride in them like Elizabeth wanted him to.

Sherlock tried to shake his head, but his neck was stuck. Colton was wrong, he was so wrong about all of it, but something in his words rang true inside Sherlock, and he panicked. He couldn't find the strength in his legs to run, or the power in his voice to tell him off, so he just stood there, knuckles white as he gripped the straps of his backpack, Colton's green eyes afire with rage. 

Sherlock swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do! You told everyone I'm stupid! You told them I'm nothing!"

"I don't remember - "

"Don't lie!" Colton shouted then, two rough hands snapping out and shoving Sherlock hard, so hard that he fell to the ground, backpack crunching under him. 

Sherlock's chest hurt, but he managed to speak, palms pressing down into the cement, eyes burning. "Colton, I really don't know what you're on about!" 

"You're so smart, you're so _smart_ , you're the 'best of all of us,' they said. Well you're not. You're just trying - " Colton stepped closer. Sherlock's heart was pounding furiously, but he couldn't move. "Trying to make us all look bad!" 

Before Sherlock could wrap his head around what Colton was on about, a quick, solid blow crashed into his stomach. The dull pain had Sherlock keeling over and onto his side, where he reflexively curled up.

"D-don't…" he stuttered. 

"No! You - " Colton kicked again in the same spot, catching Sherlock's hands and fingers as they cradled his stomach, "can't - " another kick, " do - " another, "that! - " and another. 

Sherlock wheezed, pain shooting through his stomach, ribs, hands, and spine, tears stinging his eyes. He was breathless and confused, but the kicks stopped for a moment, allowing Sherlock to roll his face away, hoping to shield it. Colton was prattling on about the same thing, acting as if he were the victim from something Sherlock might have said. Actually said? _I said that? I probably did._ Sherlock thought, his crunched hands leaving his stomach for a moment, only to help him roll away, turn over, do something, _move._  

Nevertheless, Sherlock was kicked again, this time in the ribs. It was powerful and caused Sherlock's face to scrape against the cement, his tender cheek skin fraying while his lip split. 

There was another pause as Sherlock groaned and cried. He felt like he was dying, his insides hurt so fiercely. _I can't die yet,_ he thought, _John's not here._

But bullies don't care if their subjects fear death, need their friends, or if even the bodies they mangle are still young and fragile. They just want to hurt. 

Colton just shuffled around him and kicked him again, this time in the back of the thigh before running off, sneakers padding across the cement. 

Sherlock lay there in pain for a while. He understood the pain, he understood the bruises and the tenderness of his ribs and how the wind was knocked out of him and how his skin had been scraped, but what he didn't understand was _why._

He hadn't talked to Colton once, barely even about him, save for maybe a quick deduction during recess the first day he came. But that was to John, not to Phillip, and it certainly wasn't as crass as what Colton had made it out to be. In fact, Sherlock just told John he thought he might have trouble fitting in, since he was new and seemed sort of shy. That's it. No jab at his mother, no flaunting of his smarts, nothing like that.

So where had it come from?

Was it the way Sherlock carried himself, the pride in his eyes after a lesson, the way he always raised his hand to answer? Was it how he was always smiling with John, happy to have someone to play with, when Colton clearly didn't? 

What had he done wrong? 

Sherlock didn't know. He didn't know where the sudden violence came from, and he didn't know he'd even affected Colton in any way. But he had, somehow, he did something wrong, obviously, and as he curled in again, tears stinging the rash on his cheek and falling into the split in his lip, he promised not to draw attention to himself anymore. It only got him in trouble.

And he hated that he had to do that, he really did, because he loved to be the smart one. He loved the way John looked at him when he was at the head of the class. 

Still crying, Sherlock dry heaved in realizing that this would probably happen again. He'd have to see Colton again. He couldn't disappear right here, in this spot, as much as he wanted to, as much as he feared he would.

It was a complicated attack of emotions when you've been beaten and left to cry in the middle of the school courtyard. 

* * *

"All right, boys! Good work today! Nathan, you played a great forward, Sam, good sweeping, and John, fantastic defense! That's it for today, so go home and wash off and - "

"John!" 

Someone interrupted the coach with a pained screech as they ran across the field. Their pink dress was splattered with mud from crossing, as the autumn rain had wet the field. 

"Molly?" John turned to her, embarrassed, his team watching curiously.

She was breathless and looked scared. "It's Sherlock."

John's heart stopped. "What happened?" 

"He's hurt." She breathed hard. "He's in the nurse's office."

His teammates bristled and his coach stepped between them and John, if only for a bit of privacy. 

Ice shot through John's previously warmed muscles. He repeated himself, louder in panic, "What happened?"

"I don't know, just please come."

"Right, okay." John took off running then, surprised his legs worked at all. His coach shouted after him, but he didn't hear. Blood rushed in his ears, and he was barely aware that Molly was running beside him, pink flats stained and caked in mud.

 _She must care about him, too._ Somewhere in his mind, John knew Molly loved Sherlock, not only from knowing of her long-term crush but how she stood up for him when people told him to sod off with his "deductions." 

John sprinted off the field and towards the courtyard. He didn't notice the small bloodstain from Sherlock's split lip, and he barely knew the way to the nurse's office. He wondered if the nurse would even be on campus this late after school. 

But she was, apparently, as Molly lead him through the empty hallways and to her office. The lights were on.

They both stood, panting, outside the door. John didn't want to go in. He didn't want to see Sherlock hurt. If he did, it'd be like admitting that they weren't toddlers anymore. They couldn't curl up under the beanie bags, where their only issue was their young pre-school teachers telling them to be nice to the other children.

John knocked anyway. 

The door opened and John's stomach clenched in nervousness. The nurse, a squat, busty woman with chopsticks in her silver hair, looked him and Molly up and down. "Are you - ?"

"I'm John."

"All right, come in. Thank you, Molly. You can go home now."

John turned back and looked at her. She had been crying, and she still looked scared. 

_What was she doing here so late?_

Molly nodded and walked on trembling legs down the hall. John watched her go, oblivious to how she'd seen Sherlock hobble, hunched and bloodied, into the office on her way back from dance class. Wisbech Academy had many after school activities, which proved to be lucky for John, as he was just halfway across a campus when Sherlock needed him.

But what did he need him for? How was he hurt? _What happened!?_

John was confused and angry, but he was now presented with the opportunity to find out, so he looked away from Molly and stepped inside, brushing past Mrs Jameson. In the office, Sherlock was curled up on the patient's table, bandages on his fingers and hands and lip. 

"Sherlock!" John couldn't feel anything inside him, save for his heart beating in his throat. He rushed to Sherlock's side. Everything was slow, like a nightmare, but John could hear himself shouting, "What happened, what happened?" 

John reached out a trembling hand, unsure of where to put it. He settled it on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock didn't react, his eyes were still closed. 

Remembering there was an adult in the room, John turned to her, eyes scared and wide. 

She took her chained glasses off and let them hang around her neck. She glanced at Sherlock's fragile form. "Seemed he got in a row. Found him in the courtyard on my way back from a meeting. He hasn't said anything about what happened, but he's really beaten up, so there's no question that someone did it to him. Didn't seem to be a very fair fight, by the looks of it."

John didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do, how to act, or who to blame. He just sighed a broken sob and looked on, Sherlock's pretty, pale young skin scratched and swollen around his cheekbone, his breathing light and pained.

* * *

John stayed with Sherlock and gave the nurse all the necessary information. Mrs Jameson then called Sherlock's mother, and Victoria picked them up in the car, since Mrs Jameson told her they wouldn't be able to walk home. Victoria arrived quickly, but the minutes waiting for her seemed like years. Her eyes were scared and sad as she found them and helped Sherlock limp to the car. She sent John in after him and closed the door lightly as she talked to the nurse.

The backseat felt heavy. John didn't like it, so he tried to talk to Sherlock again, who had been disconnected and quiet since he opened his eyes.

"Sherlock…" John missed Sherlock's voice.

"John."

"What happened?" He'd asked that a lot, but he didn't really receive any good answers, so he kept asking.

Sherlock barely moved his swollen lip, his voice small, as he said, "Colton."

John turned his face downwards and grimaced. "Why… Why did he do…" John looked back up at Sherlock, who was turned away from him, bandaged hands protective on his stomach. "This?"

"I don't know."

"Did he say anything?"

Sherlock's voice didn't sound like him at all, almost as if he didn't want to tell John, but he had to. He had to. "He said I was smarter than everyone. That I made him feel stupid. I made him look bad. I made him feel like nothing."

"But you didn't say anything, did you?"

Sherlock didn't answer that. John knew he didn't say anything, he felt dumb for even questioning it.

John wanted to take Sherlock's hand, but he couldn't. "What else?"

"He said Phillip told him I was saying all these mean things about him."

"Did you tell him you weren't?"

"I said I didn't know what he was talking about."

"Sher - "

"I didn't. I didn't know what he was talking about. You know that."

"Then what happened?"

Sherlock waited before responding. Victoria turned towards the car, opened the right-side door, and climbed in, silent.

"He pushed me down and kicked me."

His mother sighed and sniffed a bit, but she didn't turn around. She knew this was John's moment. She started the car and drove away as the silence settled in again. John, once more, didn't know what to say. He didn't have anything against Colton, really, but he knew he was a bit of a jerk. Now though, now he had every reason in the world to hate him. He hurt his best friend, his everything.

They were halfway down the street, past John's house, when Sherlock spoke again.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't get back at him. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. Look at you."

Sherlock hadn't been eight for more than four months, but he looked much, much older in that moment. He turned to John. His eyes were lifeless and swollen. "It's not your fight."

"Yes, it is!"

"He'll hurt you, John."

"He's already hurt _you!_ " 

They were climbing the long driveway up to the Holmes mansion now. Victoria was still silent. John couldn't see her crying. 

Sherlock breathed deeply, and it sounded like it hurt him. "It's fine. Let's just… forget about it."

John had no idea what Sherlock was thinking, how he was feeling, or what he meant by wanting John to forget it. He obviously wouldn't forget it. Colton hurt his best friend, his Sherlock, he hurt him _bad_ , and John wasn't going to just "forget about it."

Victoria parked the car as John gawked at Sherlock, unable to speak. She got out and moved around to get Sherlock first. She opened the door, unbuckled him, and took him out carefully. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to hold her baby, hold him so tightly and not let go for a very long time, but the nurse must've told her about his stomach and rib injuries, so all she could do was help him carefully out of the car and into the house. 

John was left in the car, upset and confused. 

He hoped this wasn't the first of many incidents, but he couldn't be sure.

* * *

A few months later, things were back to normal. …Sort of. The Colton situation had worked itself out, and Sherlock had healed up fine. 

The night of the attack, Victoria had cried and cried, Charles holding her the way she wanted to hold her son. Mycroft was nowhere to be found. John and Sherlock were in the sitting room, struggling to talk about it, when Victoria came in and said that Sherlock needed to rest. She changed his ice-pack before leading him up to his room. When he was put to bed, she went down to talk to John. 

As she approached, John swore he saw something move out from the around the corner. Mycroft disappeared down the hallway, but not before looking back at John. He'd never seen Mycroft look so scared and hurt. Victoria moved in front of him then, and Sherlock's older brother was gone. 

She kneeled before him, holding his arms and looking up at him with swollen, reddened eyes. "John. Do you know anything about what happened?"

"Not really."

"Do you know who did this?"

"Yeah."

"Who did this?"

"Sherlock said it was Colton. Colton Sherrington. He's the new kid."

"Why did Colton hurt him? Do you know?"

"He thought Sherlock was being mean to him."

Her grip tightened on John's arms. "Was he?"

Sherlock hadn't been clear about that part. John couldn't know what Sherlock said when he was around, but he knew what Sherlock had said to him, and it wasn't bad. "No… No. He wasn't. Colton is wrong."

Victoria dipped her head, dark curls coming loose from her bun. She gave a few half-hearted sobs before standing up and hugging John tight. "Of course he's wrong. Sherlock would never do that."

After a week or so, Sherlock's smaller scrapes and bruises healed up. The large bruises on his stomach, thigh, and ribs, took much longer.

Luckily, as he was healing, John and Victoria had the opportunity to talk to the headmaster and Ms Smith, who were both horrified. They said that they understood where Colton's anger was coming from, but that it was no excuse to harm another student. They apologized for Colton's actions, resentful that Sherlock was the victim he chose. They gave their best regards to Sherlock, allowing him as much time as he needed to heal up. John brought him home his school work, which made it easier for Sherlock to stay involved, which kept up his mood. A bit.

After they brought Sherlock in for question, as well as Colton, Colton was expelled. 

Things went back to normal as best they could, although Sherlock was definitely less proud, less of a show-off. He was moody and reserved and quiet, and John didn't like it, he didn't like to see Sherlock keep his hand down for a question he'd love to answer, and he didn't like to see Sherlock hiding in the shadows as he practiced football, instead of right in the sun on the sidelines, cheering him on.

It wasn't the same, and the year went by slowly, but Sherlock was safe, and no matter how much he begged John not to, John swore that he'd protect him from then on. Always.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating and added some tags because of this chapter, and I feel bad for beating up our small fav, but you knew it wasn't going to be easy. It never is.  
>   
> Also, I'm warning you now, things don't really get any easier from here on out. Sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year five proved to be a bit of a distraction from the memory of year four.

A lot of things were the same after the incident. Sherlock still played with Redbeard, he still ate his mother's fresh scones, and he still talked to John. His house was still grand and intricate, and he still caused a ruckus in his upstairs bedroom during experiments. That said, there was something missing. It was like Sherlock was a bit of an empty shell. It was like what was left of him was only a casing of the spunky nine-year-old he could have been, and nobody but his family could see it. His brilliant eyes were sometimes dull, and while John caught him laughing and rolling off his bed late at night, comic book in hand, a silence would take over and Sherlock's pretty lips would fall into a flat line.

Mycroft could see this change clearly, and since he didn't have the courage to talk to Sherlock about it, he talked to John. His seventeen-year-old cynicism melted, just for a moment, and he'd talk to John with all the care and concern they both shared. Harriet, even, could see something had changed, and she was deep in her own little world of friends and exciting life. Nevertheless, when Sherlock was over, she'd pad on over and look at him, smile her innocent year three smile, and ask if he was okay.

The answers the same, every time. _I'm fine. It's nothing. Don't worry about me._ On occasion, it was _Stop asking me that._ or _Leave me alone._

Nobody, not even John, was used to Sherlock acting this way. The way he'd snap, how he'd shut them out, how the excitement in his eyes had dulled. And while John and Sherlock's family noticed it, if anybody else had watched him, they'd say that he was just moody. "Fifth years can be like that," they'd say. "He's just growing," they'd say.

But it wasn't really obvious, either. There wasn't a grey cloud hanging over his curly brunet head, nor was he always frowning. He was just more reserved, more soft-spoken. He did smile, he did laugh, but it wasn't the same. 

Summer was different this time. It was less adventurous, less childish. John often missed the way it used to be.

So many things had changed, John and Sherlock's appearances one of them. John's football practice had strengthened his legs and core and his bright, innocent eyes now held a touch of sorrow. Sherlock, too, looked different. All of his bruises had healed and his skin resumed its natural pale glow, but the light dusting of his freckles across the bridge of his nose had darkened. The baby fat in his cheeks slowly dripped away, revealing the prominent cheekbones he and his mother shared. He was still young and scrawny, and by no means tall and impressive like Mycroft, but there was a maturity in him that probably shouldn't have been there, not quite so soon. 

Halfway through the summer, Sherlock's darkness seemed to lighten up. His fits of isolation weren't as common, and on some days, it was like nothing ever happened. Perhaps he felt more free to be himself over holiday, since the remainder of the school year had been the worst for him.

John was almost ready to say it was all better, that Sherlock was back, but it wasn't that easy. Fate wouldn't make it that easy. It never did.

Sherlock and John were lounging in various positions in John's bedroom, laughing until their stomachs hurt, rock songs that tried too hard their soundtrack, when the doorbell rang.

Elizabeth wasn't home, she and Harry were out looking for clothes. Harry wanted something patterned and pretty, so John's mother took her out on the fine summer day. This had John and Sherlock alone, left to scramble out of the room and rush through the house, still half-singing the chorus of the last song, when they heard the bell chime.

When John got to the door, Sherlock was poking him in the back and tickling under his armpits. He told him to quit it just as he opened the door. 

A few of John's school football mates were standing at his door, muddy football and all. Their jerseys were splattered with mud and their faces were flushed as if they'd already been playing. They smiled at him before they realized Sherlock was standing behind him. Their eyes dropped to their shoes for a moment like the only thing they associated Sherlock with was being kicked into a pulp. John hated when they looked at him like that.

"H-hey guys," John stuttered, hoping to get them to stop feeling bad for something that didn't concern them.

Nathan switched the ball to the other arm and raised his eyes, "John! Mate!"

"What's going on?" John tried to make the question more casual and less _Why are you interrupting the one good day I had with him?_

"Thought you might want to get out," Nathan quipped. "Fancy a scrimmage?"

John's hand tightened on the doorknob. Nathan couldn't see it. Sherlock could. 

"Ah, I'm a bit busy today. Raincheck?"

Nathan, Dean, and Seamus looked from John to Sherlock. Dean nodded, "All right. That's fine. We just thought - "

"Actually, he's not busy." Sherlock's unforgettably intelligent voice grumbled from behind John. "I was just leaving. Goodbye, John."

He then pushed past John and the three other boys, coolly and sternly, before walking down the street and turning up towards his house. None of John's mates saw him start running, but John did.

John sighed. They were so close to being normal again, to letting the violent memory slip away through the sound of laughter and dumb jokes, but any reminder of school, of what happened, set Sherlock off. John glanced at the silhouette of the mansion before stepping outside and taking the ball.

"That was weird," Seamus said.

* * *

Something about John's friends made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable. _They_ weren't the ones who beat him up, but he knew, from how John recounted that day, that they were with him when they heard Sherlock was hurt. He must have been having a grand old time with them when he got the news. It probably embarrassed John, having to leave them to clean up after him.

God, and they always had those guilty eyes. Those, "I'm sorry the new kid beat you up" eyes with a touch of "But we all knew he'd snap on someone" foot shuffling. 

Sherlock ran up the street and passed the pleasant houses. Some younger children played in their front lawns, spraying each other with hoses. There was a little white dog leading its snooty-looking bald master down the street, tiny paws covered in boots to keep the heat out. A biker passed Sherlock's other side, music from her small radio in the basket surging and fading as she went. It was summer, so everyone was out, but Sherlock wished they weren't. He closed his eyes and slowed to a walk, blocking them out and retreating into his mind. He went over what happened, like he often did.

It was flashes of sneakers, the sound of retreating footsteps, and the taste of blood in his mouth. It was his mother's disappointed eyes and John's embarrassed questions. It was the whispers and looks from students when he came back and sympathetic smiles from teachers. It was random, unprompted violence, and it only happened once, but Sherlock couldn't shake the memory. He couldn't shake the guilt. 

Sherlock grimaced - it shouldn't even matter anymore! It happened months ago. Colton was long gone by the time he returned to school. He'd caught up on the lessons he missed, returned to violin practice, and had loads and loads of support and comforting words from people.

So why did it hurt so _bad?_

John had told him, time and time again, that he was so scared when he heard Sherlock was hurt, that he ran with Molly as fast as he could to see him, that he's beyond grateful that he's okay, that Colton is gone. He tried everything he could to make Sherlock feel better, _be_ better.

But Sherlock couldn't find the strength to be better. He believed John, some days, but mostly he just didn't know how to make it better. What Colton said of him was true, he _did_ float on by, he _did_ think he was above everyone, and he _was_ smart. It was his fault that Colton snapped. He couldn't blame him, really.

Sherlock balled his fists and scraped his eyes, gritting his teeth as his mind transitioned into remembering John's reaction. It hurt to think of John's face when Sherlock told him not to get involved.

 _"Sherlock, I need to protect you,"_ John had said.

_"No, you don't."_

_"I need to be there."_

_"No."_

_"Please, just let me tell them to stop bugging you about it - "_

_"No, it's fine it doesn't matter."_

Sherlock let out a silent sob as he turned into the long driveway up to his house. It did matter. It does matter. He didn't know when it would _stop_ mattering.

* * *

Year five proved to be a bit of a distraction from the memory of year four. Although some of the students still looked at Sherlock like they felt sorry for him, the incident had long since passed, and new drama proved to be more interesting. The boys that girls liked who didn't like them back were the talk at the lunch tables, as well as talk of how hard the girls tried to be cool as they put pink plastic hair extensions in. The teachers directed them to take it out, of course, but the memory stayed. Nobody really remembered Colton anymore.

Their new teacher, Mr Chamberlain, was informed of the incident and its effect on Sherlock, but that was purely a precaution, and he never mentioned it to the boy.

Sherlock was trying hard to be over it, and it was getting easier as it seemed the other kids didn't care, but something reminding him of it still hung in the air. The courtyard, Ms Smith, and… John.

He didn't want to associate John with it. John was a beacon, his conductor of light, the most important and most caring person in his life, but sometimes John looked at him with eyes that saw a scraped cheek and a bloody lip. It made him remember whenever they were together, and he hated it. But he couldn't command John to stop looking at him, and he didn't know how to admit to flip-flopping between being over it and not. 

Sherlock knew a lot of things, and he only knew more and more as he kept studying, passing classes easily, but how to get past this… was the one thing he didn't know.

John, luckily, had an idea, and he'd been carrying it out fairly well in the first few months of school. 

His idea was to carry on. He understood that what made Sherlock the most uncomfortable was when people remembered, so he strained his little heart to make Sherlock feel like everything was normal. Surprise attacks from new kids didn't change anything, and not changing anything meant not smothering him. John didn't force him to accept his help, his protection, but he didn't leave him lonely. It was the perfect remedy, and some days, when Sherlock needed more help, more attention, John gave it to him lovingly.

A working friendship, a serene compatibility, John and Sherlock fed off each other's energy, negative or positive, and continued on as they had been. Things were back to the way they were… mostly.

* * *

It was late into their fifth year when Sherlock completed his violin lessons. He really didn't need to continue with them after summer, when he'd practiced the most, but he wanted to be sure that it was flawless, so he stuck with it. And he would've stayed longer if his professor hadn't told him, astonished, that he'd mastered it, and there was nothing left to teach him. He just had to practice and practice and play and play and he'd be playing professionally or composing in no time. Sherlock thanked him on that last day and left, fingers itching to play.

Victoria had bought him his own violin when his professor instructed he ought to get one, but he left it at home when he went to school so it wouldn't get ruined. Now, knowing that there would be no more lessons, he wanted to play it. And he often did, at home. He'd play covers of his favorite old songs and songs John requested.

In fact, one of his favorite memories from the summer included both John and his violin.

Before John's football mates showed up at his door and scared Sherlock away, Sherlock and John were in Sherlock's room, lazy and stuffed with chocolate. John was lounging upside-down on Sherlock's bed, blond fringe (which he let grow out, and honestly, Sherlock sort of liked it) revealing his cerulean-grey eyes. He was humming one of their favorite songs, and the summer breeze drifted in through Sherlock's open window as he sat as his desk, probing plant plasma and dropping different types of acid on it.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice doing that thing whenever he said his name that Sherlock liked very much.

"Hm?"

"Think about it."

He looked up from his experiment and paused before turning to John, who was talking to him with his eyes closed, hands clasped on his chest. He looked very nice. "Think about what?"

"Like… this moment."

And Sherlock did. He thought about the old shirt of John's that he was wearing since he had to change after playing in the lawn sprinkler, he thought about the way John sweetly hummed, and he thought about the smell of plant and acid. The breeze rustled the pages of the open book on his desk, and the clock on the far wall ticked on. Sherlock tried to really focus on this moment, so he looked around at the trinkets and such in his room, many of which came from adventures with John. He had a book of dried flowers that he picked, wrappers from the sweets they got in town, and a bear with a conductor's hat from the train station. There were a few pictures, too. Pictures of Redbeard and John and him, rolling around in the grass, the sun catching the shine in John's hair and Redbeard's coat. There was a picture of Sherlock's first science experiment, where he was covered in glop from making a non-newtonian fluid. John was laughing in the corner of the picture. Shortly after his father took the picture, Sherlock remembered throwing some of the mixture at John. It hit him solidly in the arm, but slipped off and into a puddle at his feet. 

Sherlock was looking around at the pictures, nostalgia washing over him, when his gaze fell on John again. 

He watched him hum silently, eyes closed. 

John had seen him grow up, and Sherlock had seen the same. Maybe they weren't grown yet, since they were hardly out of primary school, but they certainly weren't toddlers anymore. They talked more now. They had real, fulfilling conversations, and sometimes they joked about things that they probably shouldn't know about, like illness and murder. Toddlers didn't do that. 

His slim chest was rising and falling gently when he spoke again. "Are you thinking about it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"What about you? What… do you think?"

John opened his eyes. His lashes were blond and thin and caught the afternoon light. "I think this would be better if you played for me."

Sherlock's heart flipped. "What?"

"Play something for me. On your violin." John mimed playing the violin in the air. It was clumsy and incorrect, but Sherlock liked it just the same.

He swallowed, "I don't know, John…"

"Please, please?" John scooted farther down the bed so his head dipped low. He looked at Sherlock with an upside-down pout.

"No, I don't think…"

"C'mon, I know you're good! Just one song. It'll make this afternoon even more perfect."

Sherlock's stomach clenched at that. Something in John's voice was ridiculously honest, and his eyes gleamed so blue, that the aspiring violinist had to comply. He rose from his desk and moved to the shelf where his violin was sitting undisturbed in its case. He took it out with careful hands, feeling John watch him all the while, before he rose and walked to the window. He looked out at the neighborhood and set the violin under his chin, breathing deeply at the feeling. Calmness was taking him over already, his voice smooth and soft as he asked, "What shall I play?"

"I don't know. Anything. Whatever you like."

Sherlock hummed, back turned towards John. He raised the bow and placed it gently on the strings. He had an idea of what John wanted to hear, so he mentally arranged the notes before he played the first. Then, with a great breath and one long stroke, he began to play.

The notes swirled in the stomach of the instrument and carried on the wind over to John's ears. He'd flipped over onto his stomach in preparation, and was now watching Sherlock sway with his chin on his forearms. 

He was so graceful in playing that he didn't quite look like a disheveled kid in his best friend's old t-shirt. His arm moved carefully and his legs stayed strong and solid. John looked on lovingly and felt a warmth bloom in his chest that he didn't know what to call other than the usual reaction to Sherlock doing something extraordinary. Then, just as the warmth was catching in his throat, John recognized the tune.

Sherlock was playing a slow, acoustic version of John's favorite song. The original was fast-paced and complicated, but as Sherlock strung it out now, John couldn't see how anything other style would fit. The rhythm was like a beating heart, thrumming in John's bones, the melody, too, swept over him, familiar but new all at once.

Like Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and tilted his head so his cheek was pudgy against his arms. As he breathed, the music swelled. Wrapped in melody, John sunk into the serenity. It was a calm like he'd never known, and he was almost drifting off to a land of sweeping pale arms and brilliant turquoise eyes before the music faded and Sherlock was calling him awake.

Sherlock, in looking back, had no idea that John was so passionately lost to the music he played because truthfully, he was just as lost. Playing with such ease, bringing a new spark to a well-known song, feeling the rush of air from his strokes on his cheek… it had him floating into the clouds. 

He truly loved playing the violin, more than he knew how to express, and to have John love it just as much was more than he could ever ask for. 

Coming back to reality with notes still drifting in his head, Sherlock refocused his eyes and remembered where he was currently. He was leaning up against a stubby tree in the shade, watching John practice. He had plenty more time to do this now that his lessons were over, and while he missed the time to play, he certainly didn't mind having the spare time to watch. 

He caught a flash of maroon, of Watson #7, before he smiled a private smile and slipped down the trunk. He sat against it, pulled out a book from his pack, and began reading. It was only when a football rolled towards him did he look up.

* * *

"Hey," John said, foot trapping the ball as it bumped against Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes dazzling and nostalgic like they were when he went far, far away. "Hi."

"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" 

His best friend sighed and ended it with a hum, "Music."

"Ah." 

John wanted to sit beside him in the grass and watch the boys play. He wanted Sherlock to read to him like he sometimes did, and if he was being honest with himself, he wanted them not to be disturbed by anything for a very, very long time. Instead, he just ground his cleated foot into the grass and waited for Sherlock to say something. He didn't. "What… do you want to do today?" John offered.

Sherlock turned back down to his book, not a sign of dismissing John, but multitasking. He'd listen and respond to John's voice and continue an experiment at the same time. "I don't know."

"Well, we could… Take Redbeard out… Or we could bake something… Or we could go exploring by the marsh." 

These seemed like fine options to John, since anything was fine as long as they were together. Sherlock didn't reply quite yet, and John feared he might not want to do anything at all. However, not once, not even when Sherlock was moody and sulking, did he tell John he didn't want to spend time together. His mother often said it for him and sent John home on particularly bad days, but John had never heard it come out of Sherlock's own mouth. So, naturally, he was grateful when this time, it didn't. 

"I think we should continue with the story."

"The story?"

"The one about the crimson dragon and the elves." 

The football squeaked under John's foot as he chuckled. "Oh, right, that one! What was it called… Fantasialand?"

"Fantivia Kingdom. In the land of Drireshard. We're knights." Sherlock remembered. Of course he did.

"All right," John said, checking over his shoulder, memory of their wild, imaginary characters already dancing about in his head. The team had been scrimmaging with two balls on the field, a strange but effective exercise, so John's presence with Sherlock wasn't necessarily harmful. Still, he should be getting back. He looked down at Sherlock, "Today then, after practice. We can continue the story."

Sherlock didn't make a sound of agreement, but John took it to mean yes anyway. He turned with a swivel and popped the ball above him, hitting it once with his knee. He dribbled it a few feet away before he heard Sherlock shout.

"Nathan's not playing well today. You'll have to move up towards midfield if you want to counter him."

John turned back to thank him, but Sherlock's curly fringe was bowed as his head was in his book. John smiled anyway and hustled back onto the field.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock, slipping into a bit of depression after Colton beat him up. But things got better!  
>   
> Also, lmao at how in love they are already. I can't believe this. They don't even fucking get it...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the morning was unbelievably perfect.

Finally, the last year of primary school. Year six had come and John and Sherlock could feel the tired, repetitive, childlike drama of primary school squeak out one last hurrah as the school year started. True, they would still be at Wisbech academy the next year, but they'd be in _secondary school_ , with the older kids. They'd have more challenging classes, better after school activities, and, in some cases, opportunities for "different kinds" of adventures. At least, that's what Mycroft said. He spat it with a sneer, of course, but John and Sherlock could almost see the glint of mischief in his intelligent eyes. 

He was going off to university soon, and Sherlock didn't think he'd miss him too much. His snotty remarks and conversation that only consisted of what he wanted to study had worn Sherlock down, and the sooner he could shack up with some sorry bloke, the better. That didn't mean he didn't still love him, obviously. It was just his turn to be a teenager - Mycroft's time was well up.

After a summer holiday of scraped elbows and muddy shoes, John and Sherlock approached year six with tired eyes but hope in their hearts. This year, their teacher was a crockety old guy named Mr Maxwell. He was a good teacher, but sometimeshe snapped at the young girls, and often he'd say something akin to "you can't do this because you're a girl." Sherlock and John weren't really affected by this, although it bugged them a bit when he talked about motherhood in a shameful way. And, now that John's sister was eight, he had a better clue of what little girls liked, so when their misogynistic teacher mentioned something, he'd tell her, and she'd get all riled up. Molly and Sally were annoyed, too, but they couldn't very well stand up to him and get him fired. That's just not how it worked.

Outside of the cringing sexism, John and Sherlock liked Mr Maxwell's ideas about history. He told them all about England's wars, like Mr Embers had, but his stories focused more on cause and effect and less on love stories. He told them of the rival countries and the American revolution, most recollections tainted with a bit of spite. 

Sherlock and John listened attentively, taking notes, passing notes, and teaming up on projects. And, in their preferred subjects, they'd study even harder, ask questions, and stay in to figure something out. More often than not, Sherlock could help John with chemistry and science and math, where John wouldn't hesitate to remind Sherlock of the constellations and historic events. Academics were easy enough for them, seeing as they helped each other as much as they could, but Mycroft would often tell Sherlock at the dinner table that year six work was far from difficult. It was easy, pointless, and just a pretense for the real work. Even secondary school work wasn't hard, or the college classes Mycroft took now. He often acted like nothing academic would be a challenge for a brilliant mind like his, an "extraordinarily, exceptional mind" as Victoria called it, but Sherlock knew that part of him was scared. If not for the rigor of university, then for the inescapable social aspect. 

He knew his brother well enough to see anxiety, and it went both ways. Mycroft deduced eelings and actions in Sherlock that he hadn't yet discovered, and the cold, hard cynicism that Mycroft protected himself with seemed translucent to the bright, innocent eyes of a child.

Obviously, Sherlock had realized that life wasn't innocent. Bruised ribs and a split lip did that to a boy, and while the childlike wonder of primary school lingered around for another year, Sherlock's classmates had developed vulgar tongues and questionable preferences. Many of the young, school uniform clad bodies around John and Sherlock were just discovering true "crushes," their faces turning red with rosy pink lips pressed to their cheeks. Once again, the thrill of the new year brought new drama and relationships, and John and Sherlock avoided it as best they could. 

By winter, the boys and girls were buzzing again, giving each other little gifts in the days leading up to Christmas holiday and hiding their blush-stained noses and cheeks in their scarves. They padded through the warm hallways without a care, but bundled up in coats and hats once they left. Football practice for John wasn't really an option, seeing as snow blanketed the field and the muddy puddles were iced over. Sherlock took to reading in the library, rather than outside, with John beside him. Then, when they were shooed away, they'd toddle home, seeking warmth, and make cocoa. 

With winter, of course, came Christmas. It was the natural order of things, and while Sherlock and John had spent every Christmas holiday together since Victoria and Elizabeth had bore them, something felt different about this one. It may have been that their plead for gift ideas from their parents was turned away, met with only "You're ten now, figure it out." It may have been that all the materialistic presents they could have given, like toys and clothes, wouldn't have conveyed the importance and necessity of the other boy in their lives. Perhaps it was the _something_ between them that neither of them knew what to call. Any of these reasons could have made that Christmas different, but no matter what, it was still as magical and loving as ever.

Sherlock and John had been working on their gifts for weeks, which caused them to spend some time apart for secrecy. Their mothers both had an inkling on what sort of feeling and reaction surrounded the gifts, but the content was unclear. It was hidden away in the boys' rooms, along with the anxiety that came with it. Sherlock worried that what he meant wouldn't come through, and John didn't want his words to fall flat. 

Both of them held their breath as the Holmes' Christmas party came, after which they'd spend the night together and wake up early, tumble down the stairs, and sit amongst the gifts.

* * *

 

On Christmas Eve, the night of the party, Sherlock padded downstairs with his hair slicked back with his father's gel, white dress shirt matching the pure snow that covered the mansion. The halls were decorated with paper snowflakes that he and John had made in school, as well as a few styrofoam snowmen lounging about in vases. The sitting room, guest room, and kitchen were aglow with red, white, and green lights, flickering to the rhythm of some overplayed holiday tune. Sherlock rounded the corner of the sitting room and leaned against the wall, admiring the Christmas tree. It was large and rose high into the ceiling, humming with lights and strings of popcorn. There was a star at the top of the tree, golden and sparkling with a little angel figurine in the center. Her wings lit up. The whole tree was beautiful in that classic, intricate way, and part of Sherlock wished his house could feel like this all the time. The boy caught his reflection in a large, glossy red ornament. He looked on for a bit longer, memories of his life with John present in the other ornaments, some of which they made together, others featuring pictures of them in the snow. Similar pictures sat on the tables around the room, flickering orange with the lit fireplace. A few presents sat under the tree, but those were the starting gifts, given by relatives and friends. Their parents' gifts would come in the morning, or Sherlock supposed, gifts from Santa. 

He smiled to himself. Santa. That mystery had been solved years ago, due in part to Mycroft bouncing him on his knee when he was five and saying, "Do you think Santa really comes, Sherlock?" That touch of doubt spiraled the curious child into his own discoveries, crawling amongst the gifts and noticing the handwriting on the tags was similar to his dad's. He was a smart baby, now a smart kid.

Sherlock was breathing lightly, standing by himself, admiring the ornamental tree, when he felt the usual presence of John appear beside him.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said. 

Heart thrumming happily at the familiar voice, Sherlock returned the sentiment and flicked his eyes to John. That steady thrum tripped up when he saw that John had the same idea as him to slick his hair back. His fringe now exposed his forehead and pretty eyes, blond lashes tinted red and green in the light. His smile was warm and friendly, and something about him seemed much older than Sherlock remembered. He hadn't seen him in a few days, actually, since he was working on the gift, so maybe he just missed his face. He was clad in a god awful Christmas sweater, but it hugged his shoulders and waist nicely, and Sherlock's cheeks felt tender at looking at it. 

John caught him staring and matched the look with his blue eyes. They seemed to say _I missed you_ , in whatever way they could, and Sherlock twitched his lips to say it back.

"So," John then cut the intense look and dug his hands into his khaki pockets, "What do you think you'll get this year?"

Sherlock moved into the room and stood in front of the presents. He didn't feel like deducing each and every box this year, although his mind was already shooting off ideas before he could stop it. He crossed his arms and cocked his head before John joined him. "Aunt Rose got me a play chemistry set, doesn't know I've got a real one. Uncle Ed's given me a tie, don't know why he thought I needed another… and your mum's stocked me up with pencils and notebooks, along with a new mug. That's nice."

"She knew you'd filled up the last ones," John said with a laugh. "And you broke that old mug when Redbeard tried to get at the cocoa."

"Liz is quite thoughtful." 

John beamed. He liked it when Sherlock called his mum by Victoria's nickname for her.

His eyes swept over the presents under the tree. He didn't have a lot of relatives, certainly not as many as Sherlock, but the ones he did have had dropped off his presents on their passing through to say hello a few days ago, and Elizabeth brought them to Sherlock's house, since they did a joint Christmas anyway. They sat, mismatched, in the mass of Sherlock's. 

John licked his lips and nudged him, "All right then, what did your mum get me?"

"John."

"I know, I know. Just kidding."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, eyes sweeping up and down the tree. John watched him, then turned back to the tree. They stood there for a while, just soaking in every last bit of serene Christmas wonder they could before they'd have to interact with Sherlock's family. Their moment, obviously, was cut off as Mycroft appeared in the door, eggnog in hand, scowl present. 

"There you are. They want you."

"I'm _busy_ ," Sherlock snapped, eyes never leaving the golden trinkets hanging high on the tree. 

"Clearly." He hesitated. John felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. He may have known Mycroft for as long as he knew Sherlock, but something about his scrutiny was unsettling, whereas Sherlock's was thrilling. He wondered why that was. Mycroft interrupted his wondering. "Come on, John. They want to see you again. He'll come soon, don't worry."

John looked at Sherlock once more, who just sighed. He then followed Mycroft into the kitchen and dining room, where the rest of the family thrived, drinking and eating and laughing. When John appeared, Aunt Rose set her drink down and shouted his name, throwing out her flabby arms and moving to hug him. She smelled like cigarettes and peppermint, and John gave Victoria a pleading look over her shoulder.

"Look how big you've gotten! He's no longer a runt, this one!" She poked his stomach and smiled, bits of something stuck in her horse-like teeth. John was amazed at how someone so ugly could be in any way related to Sherlock. Sherlock's entire family was beautiful, actually. Aunt Rose looked over the top of his head, "And where is Sherlock? I miss that little genius!"

"He's - "

"There he is! Sherl!" 

The same treatment for John was then given to Sherlock, although Aunt Rose kissed him wetly on both cheeks and hugged him twice. John shivered and wandered off and towards the table, on the prowl for cookies. Charles, Sherlock's dad, clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, "She's only touchy like that when she's drunk."

"So she's drunk."

"Exactly. She'll pass out by ten. Ed will take her home, and you and Sherlock will be safe."

John smiled kindly, and Charles recognized the silent response as something John had picked up from his son. He released John and turned back to his brother, Remus, resuming their discussion about fission and chemical energy.

While no longer a toddler in height, John was still small compared to Sherlock's tall family, and he kept his head low as he found the perfect cookies, poured himself some egg nog, and went to hide in a corner. He was halfway through the second cookie when Sherlock joined him, maroon lipstick marks on his cheeks. John laughed and spit out crumbs. Sherlock just shook his head. 

The rest of the night, before dinner, was spent hiding from relatives 'til they couldn't, making a short appearance, and resuming their hiding. John and Sherlock were playing with Redbeard in the guest room when they were called for dinner.

Although the only people John was actually related to were his parents and Harry, who was dressed in a pretty green dress, eyes to match, the lively Christmas dinner, complete with laughter and grabby, hungry hands, made John feel like part of the Holmes family just the same. Sherlock's cousins, uncles, aunts, and one grandparent scrambled for food across Victoria's beautifully set table. Aunt Rose was laughing, giant, yellow teeth bared like an angry donkey, whereas Uncle Remus was reserved and smiling happily to himself, eating his Christmas ham in small pieces. John was laughing to himself at the sight, although he was fairly used to it from previous years. It was a rare treat to see such a side of Sherlock's family, when most often he interacted with Sherlock and his parents. As human as John knew Sherlock was, a lot of people at school thought he was cold and closed off and would have a family to match, but they were wrong. Sherlock's family and relatives were loud, rude, silly, and loving. Most of them were tall and smart, just like Sherlock, but their talents seemed to range. Where Mycroft was logical and factual, Uncle Ed's stubby fingers held surprising agility when faced with architecture. Charles's regal but kind air was combated by Sherlock's cousins, who were all snotty and posh, taking the regality to another level. 

John sat, warm and pink, nibbling on his cranberry coated ham, the film of his sparkling cider glowing amber with the warm, golden air. 

Sherlock caught his eye a few times, smiling into his food, before he had to direct his attention back to a cousin or two. They asked him how school was going, if he liked any girls, and if he still wanted to be a "criminal investigator."

"Detective," he corrected. Seemed word got out as he studied harder, his books on chemistry and tracking clues piling up on his desk. His cousins just nodded their pasty faces, dyed hair dipping into the potatoes, already moving onto better subjects.

His two female cousins then rattled on about their jobs in retail, one of them talking about some "cow" who tried to fit into a tight skirt, while the other mentioned a "totally fit bloke" she saw at the fountain across the mall. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and tried not to smile and admit that he liked their silliness; he liked their rare presence. 

When dinner was finished and everyone was chubby and happy, plates nearly clean, fingers still scooping the extra potato-cranberry mix from the china, the conversation died down a bit. Everyone sat around, still talking of their lives, sharing stories, but the rambunctious, hungry energy had mellowed into a sort of food-coma induced hum. 

John and Sherlock bid farewell to Sherlock's family then, took their plates into the kitchen, and sneaked into the sitting room. 

John's parents apparently had the same idea, and they were (oddly) cuddling on the settee. Harry was asleep in one of the nearby chairs, dress wrinkled and hiked up as her thin legs curled under her body. The room was still, both of John's parents, as well as his sister, enjoying the quiet evening. Elizabeth noticed John and Sherlock's presence and raised her head from George's chest, untucking one hand from around his beer belly and reaching out for John. He approached them and sat by his mother. Sherlock was left standing odd and alone, out of place in his own home, and Elizabeth was about to turn back from petting John's head to welcome Sherlock in, but he was gone.

George had grimaced at him, but neither John nor Liz knew that.

It was quiet for a bit, the embers of the fire crackling as John sat beside his parents, flits of laughter drifting in from the kitchen. When his mother finally spoke, she nudged him back to reality and purred softly. "So, John, how do you feel about this Christmas?"

"S'good."

"Just good? Not incredible, not fantastic?" His mother's tone was light but he knew what she meant, the twinge of _It's not good enough?_ hiddenunder her sweet alto voice.

John shifted a bit, hand on in his stiff hair. It was crunchy and a bit annoying. "No, it's fine. I just like being with everyone."

"Oh, honey, we like being with you, too." She patted his knee, pretty gold bracelets jingling, familiar, warm face smiling at him.

He felt he needed to explain a bit further, "Like, a few years ago, I only wanted the presents. Sometimes I counted them, even. But now… It's like, just being here. With everyone. Seeing the tree. Sitting around our tree at home. It's what matters more."

Elizabeth hummed happily, and reached to stroke John's crunchy head. 

George hadn't said anything up until this point, but now he turned towards his wife and son and said, "You don't want the presents anymore?"

John's father didn't talk to him often, especially not as John was seemingly more capable of talking back. "Well, not as much - "

"Do you know how much your mother and I have to work to get you those presents?"

The calm, happy air from before had now turned sharp and cold and John's heart beat quickly like it always did when his dad raised his voice. Harry twitched in the chair beside them, the sudden sharpness cutting through her sleep.

Elizabeth retracted her touch from her husband and sat up stiffly, bringing an arm around John as she scolded, "George!" She turned to John and whispered, as soft as she could, "We love to give you presents, John. We do it because we love you. It's not a bur - "

"We work all day so we can pay for your school teams, your books, your trips, and now, the holiday that has us scraping by, and you're not even grateful!" His body had suddenly seemed big and threatening as he turned his attention towards them and braced each thick arm on the settee. His eyes accused John, the tired, somewhat baggy surrounding flesh now red and irritated. 

"George. Stop it."

"No, Elizabeth, he needs to hear this. John, you have to be grateful for what people give you. People work hard for you."

John wanted to say, _I know, I am grateful,_ but his throat was tight.

"You can't get anything for free. We work to make money, and sometimes we don't have _enough_ money to get you bloody things, but we do it _anyway_. You can't just up and decide that money doesn't matter."

Elizabeth bristled, arm still around John. "Money doesn't matter - " 

"Yes! - "

"Not for us."

" _Especially_ for us. We're sodding poor!" He looked around the sitting room as if he'd been reminded of it just by being in the Holmes residence. He scraped a palm down his face to clear the image and focused back on his son. "John, did you know we had to sell some of your grandmother's old things just to get you those fancy cleats you wanted? Or that I had to beg for a raise to keep up with your... adventures?" His voice was gruff. John was scared.

"George, please stop! John, we were happy to buy you those - "

Mr. Watson stood and loomed over them. "We're barely getting by as it is. That's why we can't have nice things. Why we buy in bulk. We have no money. No sodding money!And for the holidays we pull it together to get you something nice, and you don't even want it. Ungrateful child." Then he was storming out of the sitting room, booming voice and heavy steps leaving the room tense. Harry had awoken. She sat up in the chair, young eyes the same wide, confusion John's had been when Sherlock was hurt. 

"Why's Daddy yelling?"

Elizabeth didn't move for a moment, the silence echoing through the room and stealing John and his mother's breath. Then she was over to Harry in a flash, kissing her cheeks and saying, "Daddy's just grumpy, it's fine. I'm going to talk to him right now." She stood with all the power and strength of an Amazonian woman and directed John to watch Harriet. Then she was gone, out the front door to follow her husband. 

John gulped and tried to still his racing heart.

"Johnny?"

"Harry, mum didn't tell you this, but I will." He turned to her just as the beginnings of a row were starting outside. He talked over it. "You see this place? See how nice it is?"

She looked all around, one cheek red from sleeping on it. "Yeah."

"Our house doesn't look like this. That's because Sherlock's family has money. We don't. Dad's mad about that. He's mad because I'm…" _an ungrateful child._

John slinked back down into his seat. He shut his eyes. Harry didn't ask him anything else, and instead crawled over to him and sat beside him.

The two children sat there in silence as the happy sounds from Sherlock's family in the kitchen mixed with the muffled screaming of their parents fighting outside. 

* * *

When John and Sherlock went to bed, John told him what had happened with his dad. Sherlock said he heard it all. They stayed up for a bit then, lying back-to-back in Sherlock's bed, talking in little soft quips and intervals until they fell asleep. In the morning, all the stiffness had rubbed out of their hair and into their pillows, and they laughed at each other when they woke up, hair sticking up wild and messy. 

They didn't have the patience to dress, so they just rushed downstairs in their pajamas, eager hands sliding down the bannister as they went. They rushed into the sitting room, and John had to force the memory of his father down as the morning sun filtered in and cast golden patches of light on the tree and presents. Sherlock sunk to his knees in front of the pile, which was piled high with new presents, before looking at John and smiling big.

"Merry Christmas, John."

This time it was John who just hummed in response, joining Sherlock on the carpet, gaze fixated on Sherlock's young, handsome face instead of the mass of gifts before them. 

Sherlock was always so beautiful when he was happy. It didn't matter if he was young and chubby-cheeked with strawberry jam on his lips, or if he was swaying his thin arms as he danced to music in John's room, a soft smile playing up and into his closed eyes. Every time was magnificent, and even though last night Sherlock had seemed less than interested in the presents, something was now making his cheeks glow pink, eyes afire with excitement. 

What John didn't know was that it wasn't the presents Sherlock was excited for, but spending Christmas with John. He beamed at knowing John would be right there all morning, and while there was a shard of nervousness in both their stomachs about giving their gifts, it was nervous excitement, a giddy silliness. 

This silliness is what caused Sherlock to pounce on John and tackle him to the ground, tickling him under his arms and over his sides. John squirmed and huffed under Sherlock's weight, laughing all the while. He tried to tickle back, but Sherlock's wiry body evaded him, and John was left to suffer alone. 

Elizabeth and Victoria saved him, though, as they appeared in the doorway. "Boys!"

Sherlock leapt up off of John and went to them, hugging them both, one arm around each feminine waist. Elizabeth shared a glance with Sherlock's mother and pet his head. "Someone's excited," she said.

"Mum," Sherlock looked up, eyes bright and glassy, "Breakfast?"

Victoria laughed, looked at John over her son's curly head, and said, "What do you think, John? Breakfast and then presents?"

John had sat up from the tickle attack and was rubbing the tingling sensation out from under his arms. He just smiled, gaze falling to Sherlock as he left their mothers and joined him back on the carpet.

"Fine, fine. I'll make some. Liz, watch those little monsters." 

Mrs Watson, who'd spent the night as well, joined her son and Sherlock on the carpet, kissing their cheeks. John could see that she'd been crying all night, and he hugged her a bit tighter for it. He wasn't going to ask where his father was, since he wasn't particularly keen to find out. Instead, he asked where his sister was.

"Still asleep in Myc's room. They seem to get on quite well, despite the ten year age difference. He's a good sitter. Don't you think so, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft can be …loving when he wants to be. With me, he never wanted to be."

Elizabeth shook her head. She knew that wasn't true, she'd seen him play with Sherlock so many times as they were growing up. "That's not true, and you know it."

Sherlock snorted.

John's mother offered him an out, "Why don't you two go wake them up?"

John and Sherlock obeyed with a huff and stood, knocking each other and trying to trip each other as they went. Their laughter filled the long halls of the mansion as good breakfast smells pilfered through. When they made it to Mycroft's large, intricate room, Harry was sleeping on the couch, while the young man himself was already up, smoothing down his shirt as he looked out the bedroom window. Sherlock called him down, while John moved across the spotless floor and shook his little sister awake.

"Wake up, Harry. It's Christmas."

* * *

The rest of the morning was unbelievably perfect. They were joined by Sherlock's father and uncle Remus, who'd been the only relative who was welcome to stay the night, and they had scones and bacon and eggs and potatoes and leftovers for breakfast. They took their tea and juice before the kids scrambled into the sitting room and dove into the pile. Mycroft, Harriet, John, and Sherlock all seemed to agree to be on good terms, and they crawled over each other for their presents, tearing the golden, red, and green paper to bits. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock spoiled the surprise for anyone when they deduced what each gift was, and on occasion, they were stumped by tricky wrapping and double packaging. All of the adults, omitting George Watson, who'd gone home the night before, sat around the room, opening their own presents and watching as the children and Mycroft revealed their gifts. The sound of paper tearing, light chatter, laughter, and many "Thanks, mum!" cast the scene as friendly and filial. The Holmes family and the Watson family enjoyed the holiday together, meshing into one unit comfortably, Uncle Remus soon offering John advice while Mycroft and Elizabeth swapped stories of their school days. There was no magic like it, and both John and Sherlock wouldn't change a bit of it for the world. 

By noon, all the presents, save for two, had been revealed. The sitting room, littered with wrapping paper, darkened in a grey haze as a cloud passed across the sun. John and Sherlock sat with their mothers on each side of the room, Charles and Remus refreshing the drinks and snacks.

"Two more," Victoria said, looking across the way at Elizabeth, who's tired, wet eyes from the night before were now glowing and lovely, messy morning hair piled into a sloppy bun that peeked at Victoria as she bent down to kiss John's head. 

"Go on, Johnny, see what Sherlock's given you."

Victoria nudged her son in the ribs, "You too, mister. We've waited all morning!"

John and Sherlock exchanged a look as they both crawled forward and towards the two unwrapped gifts. The one for Sherlock was shaped like a cylinder with a bulge at the end, where John's was a sturdy box. They swallowed their excitement and reached for the gifts, checking the tags twice just to see their names in the other's handwriting, before returning to their mothers.

Sherlock's uncle and father had returned just as Harry was scrambling up into Mycroft's lap to get a better view. Victoria brushed the curls away from her face and Elizabeth pulled her knees in. The boys tried not to think about the audience watching them. They turned their gifts over in their hands, savoring the surprise.

Harry, apparently, had no time to lose. "Get on with it!" she shouted.

The adults laughed as Sherlock and John blushed. Finally, they slowly peeled away the wrapping paper. John revealed a wooden box while Sherlock now had a tube of paper with a ribbon on it, microscope lens poking out of one end. Both of the boys' stomachs flipped, hearts fluttering, as Sherlock uncoiled the tube and John opened the box.

Inside John's box were a few marbles and stones, a feather, a tape, and a few sheets of paper adorned with a smattering of notes. It was done in pen, with some ink smudges on the corners, and Sherlock's thin handwriting read "John's Song" on the top. He'd written a song for him on his violin. John handled the paper carefully, tears teasing the corners of his eyes as his mother behind him gasped. "Oh, Sherlock…" 

Sherlock had uncurled the paper, which was lightly tinted blue and smelled a bit like mint. He set the microscope aside, noting that it was the same model Sherlock had pointed out on their last adventure to town. He took a breath and peeked at the words on the paper. In John's squat handwriting, it read "For Sherlock." He glanced at the arrangement of words and realized it was a poem. His heart flickered before he rolled it up again and breathed out the breath he was holding.

"I'lll…. I'll read it later," he said in soft, small voice. Victoria patted his back and glanced over at Elizabeth, who was smoothing down John's hair as he set the song Sherlock composed for him back in the box.

"Me too." John said, although he meant listen to it via the tape.

Everyone in the room was still as the nervous, childlike love swept through, telling and quiet. Victoria nudged Sherlock then, who cut through the quiet and finally raised his eyes to John across the way.

"Thanks, John..."

John bristled like he'd forgotten something and said back, "You too. Thanks for… this."

The silence settled in again. It wasn't awkward or misplaced, it was just heavy. Heavy with something unspoken, something all of the adults, Harry, and Mycroft understood. Nobody could say if John or Sherlock understood it, but they had to at least sense _something_ , as it took Charles to bring the mood back to silly.

"Well, boys, those are quite the gifts. Good work. Now, is everyone full on sweets, or shall we get lunch?

Elizabeth and Victoria hugged their sons as they added to the light chatter, leaving the boys to question all existence and meaning as they stared at their gifts.

* * *

The families dressed and went out for a late Chinese lunch around two, during which, the clear sentimental tension from before had whisked away on the snowflakes. It was silly and light and fun again, and everyone listed off their presents and what they planned to do with them. Mycroft had gotten books on government influence as well as a university bonus for what Victoria and Charles called "having fun." 

"Ever heard of it, Myc?" Sherlock teased.

John, along with the song, had gotten more clothes, as he was growing, and some paintings and books he showed interest in. He felt too old for new toys, and his parents had understood this, as the only toy-like thing he got was a new basket for his bike.

Sherlock had almost every detective book available, but somehow Victoria had found some Russian and French novels, translated into English, that she gave him. Charles and Mycroft had conspired to get Sherlock hair products for himself and nice shoes, as he'd been complaining about wanting to dress better. Nobody had mentioned that he'd still be conformed to the school uniform at school, and that gelled hair might be against the code. Sherlock didn't care, he was going to do what he wanted. Along with the shoes and products, Sherlock also had gotten good, sturdy beakers from Mycroft, which he needed desperately.

Harriet was given a few new dresses, some new shoes, and some dolls, ranging from traditional "girl" models to the boyish action figures she'd lamented for.

Elizabeth had gotten Victoria some new earrings and bracelets, her favorite style, while Victoria gave Elizabeth a gorgeous new night dress and as a joke, a fanny pack meant for holding wine that women could tuck into their bras.

Charles was given boring shirts and books, and seemed to be more interested in the "surprise gift" Victoria had whispered that she'd give him later.

Uncle Remus had brought chocolate for all the kids and sneaked Mycroft an empty stainless steel flask with his initials engraved on it, telling him only to cut loose _after_ he'd taken his exams. Remus wasn't much of a drinker, but he saw the good fun in it after a hard day at uni, and he assumed Mycroft would be the same. He leaned in over lunch as said to only sneak the best liquors in it, none of that piss-water stuff.

Charles and Victoria had gotten Remus a new helmet, as well as chrome wheel covers, for his motorcycle. He promised them it was just a hobby, he wouldn't turn into a buff biker bloke, but they saw the gleam in his mischievous eyes when he'd smoothed his slender fingers over the smooth surfaces.

It was a pleasant lunch, and everyone was stuffed and tired of celebrating. They returned to the Holmes residence to digest and watch a few movies.

Later that evening, Elizabeth bid farewell to the Holmes family and took sleepy John and Harriet away, telling them that they'd be available any time over the holidays. Elizabeth kissed Victoria on the cheek and thanked her again, this time emphasizing more than the party, more than the gift. Victoria understood her intent and wished her good luck in solving her marital problems.

Sherlock waved John off and waited a solid hour before he absconded to his room to read John's poem. He sat, cross-legged on his bed, and uncurled the paper.

John lay in his own room, tape settled into his player, when he took a breath and braced himself to listen. 

Sherlock Holmes read the first stanza as the beginning notes of his composition swirled about John Watson's room, just down the street. 

The violin's notes began light and simple, just a hesitant little bump of strings.

 _Sherlock._ The poem started.

It was a sweet,rhythmic solo, barely there, never abrasive on John's ears.

_I often don't understand anything, almost nothing, compared to you._

Sherlock stiffened, John breathed. 

_There's times when I can never keep up with your mind, times when I don't even know how to._

The notes picked up a bit now, another trail of deeper tones underlying the first. They played together, a perfect pair. It was wonderful, unlike any violin song John had ever heard.

_Somehow though, you've stayed at my side, despite my inability for smarts._

John was smart, he was so smart, Sherlock told him, mentally.

_And some people, yeah, some people think you're cold, stubborn - a total arse!_

The two notes played together like children in a grassy meadow. They increased in intensity and frequency, buzzing together and leaping off one another.

_But not me._

Notes fell and slowed, giving way to a sinking seriousness. Now, there was but a smooth roll of tone.

_I think you're the best and wisest person I've ever known. / I think you're different and wonderful and human, it's always shown._

Sherlock's composition buzzed and surged, like a cat under its owner's touch.

_And I've known you longest, so surely I know better than anyone._

The melody picked up again, this time darker, a bit fiercer. It was almost frightening. It made John think about Sherlock's split lip, somehow.

Sherlock read John's poem with the all the passion and attention he could _. Other people don't get it. They don't see what I see, they don't understand that we've won._

The darkness surged and enveloped the touch of lightness, cutting off abruptly and leaving a small thrum of high notes. Like a beating heart, the notes pumped and held on, until the deep, familiar tone from earlier had come again, repeating the earlier refrain in the same way. It was sturdy and strong and it picked up the small, heartbeat note. 

_We've won because we're a team. Partners in crime, knights of the kingdom._

Struggling to find that pace again, the notes danced and moved, climbing back into a comfortable duo, but something was darker, a hollow harmonic.

_Nobody has what we have: a brotherhood, a friendship, a total sum._

John's heart beat in time with the notes' partnership as they swirled and surged, the terrifying melody from before creeping in, present but overcome. The two melodies had now blended into a steady song, no longer a scatter of notes and dips. It was repetition, melody, and song. It was beautiful.

_Call me cheesy, say I'm mental, / But I think we're good friends. I'm not lying, I mean it all._

Sherlock smiled to himself, eyes fuzzy with tears. John was so good at rhyming, and he didn't even have to be. Not every poem rhymed on an A - A - B - B scheme, but somehow, it fit him just right. Simple but powerful, smart and to the point. He was nearing the end of the poem, but he wished it went on longer.

John was almost humming along to the song at this point, it repeated beautifully. It fit just right, a perfect palette of melody made just for Sherlock's violin. Made just for John.

 _I think you already know how much you mean to me, / But I think_ you _ought to say it more, remind_ me _, see?_

Sherlock read on. John listened. 

_You're my best friend, you're mad, and you're wild / Unlike anyone I've ever known, you're all I've ever known, and that's just your style. / We're Sherlock and John, it's all we've ever been, / And I hope, if you agree, we can stay like this 'til the end._

The music was slowing, the grand push and pull of melody and rhythm trickling back into just two simple notes, bounding off the strings and into John's heart.

Sherlock was overwhelmed with sentiment, as was John. They held on as long as they could until the last stanza, the last note.

_Merry Christmas, Sherlock, and remember that I will always / Be there._

Notes fading, violin straining to lighten the last of the melody, John closed his eyes and breathed deep. He didn't know what to think other than praise and overwhelming love for his best friend.

Miming John, Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and hugged his poem to his chest. It was clumsy and wordy and barely held his thoughts together, but it was how John saw him, it was John all over, it was perfect, and Sherlock loved it.

They both fell asleep that night with smiles playing on their young faces, hope and love blooming in their chests, teasing their dreams, knowing that the proof of the other's friendship would be there in the morning to experience again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lag on updating, lovies, I got caught doing college prep! Bought lots of clothes, a new bag, a new wallet, and I'm going to get a desk lamp and new laptop later today! Twenty days 'til move in. Jesus.
> 
> So here's this chapter, it's long and fluffy and romantic, with a touch of parental issues.
> 
> Also, writing a poem for John was hard because I had to make it shitty for my standards but good for a ten-year-old's. And then Sherlock's song is just the history of them, which is gay as hell. 
> 
> *sobs* They're so talented and so in love \\(^o^)/


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like something about girls had finally been introduced to him.

John beamed at Sherlock as they stood outside of their new secondary school class on the first day of school. Eleven and antsy with anticipation, the boys gave each other one last nudge before stepping in with the other children. Well, pre-teens, they supposed. That’s what their mothers called them, anyway. 

Little did they know that once they left the room Victoria and Elizabeth talked about them, wondering if now that puberty was just around the corner, they’d start to figure things out. They decided that it had to happen eventually, as John and Sherlock were still fairly clueless.

Now, they walked side-by-side into the seventh year room. It definitely spared no expense in differing itself from primary school classrooms. There was less art on the walls, and if there was, it was only of the highest quality and seemed to have been there from students long gone. Larger desks sat in rows, some dull and adorned with carvings, others looking brand new. The large white board at the front of the class had the date up in the corner, just like their other classes. Similarly, a vocabulary word was displayed. On the other side of the board, the round-faced female teacher pointed to a chart.

“These are your seats,” she said, boys and girls refusing to settle down. “Please, please find your seats.”

John and Sherlock hustled to the front of the room and checked for their names. They were seated on completely opposite sides of the class. With a disappointed huff and a sneaky look, the boys separated and retreated to their sides of the room.

Their classmates were still bumbling about for a few minutes, swamped with the excitement of the new year and the daunting realization that maybe it wouldn’t be that different from sixth year. John and Sherlock sat apart, quietly, until John found someone to talk to.

A pretty girl with dark, unnaturally maroon hair sat in front of him and turned her big brown eyes on him and introduced herself. John stuck out his hand awkwardly and began chatting with her. On his end, it was nice to see a new face. On hers, John was cute and looked lonely. On Sherlock’s end, something akin to jealousy bubbled up in his stomach when the girl laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her pierced ear. 

Finally, after minutes of scrambling and chatting, Sherlock periodically glaring at the girl talking to John, the teacher got the students’ attention and introduced herself.

“My name is Mrs Morrisey, and I’ll be teaching you seventh year English. I don’t have many rules, but those that I do are basically these three - respect the space, respect each other, respect yourself. Got it?”

A few classmates, including the girl in front of John, responded verbally. Sherlock huffed an exasperated breath. He was ready to learn, but he knew there majority of the day would be introductions and syllabuses. At this rate, he could just run home and play with Redbeard instead.

The rest of the first day was a blur of newness and the same sodding stuff over and over again, class rules, seating charts, and expectations for the year. By the end of the day, John and Sherlock were itching to get back to their books and sports.

Sherlock was waiting by the front of the school when John caught up with him after signing up for football. They were about to get going when the girl with the dark hair appeared again.

“John!” she said, running up to them, light blue skirt fluffing up and flashing a bit of her tan thigh. 

“Hi, Charice,” John muttered, giving Sherlock a bit of an apologetic look. “What’s going on?”

“Well, er, like I said this morning, I’m sort of new to this area, and I was wondering if you could help me get home. Mum said it’s just a bit of a walk, but she drove me here to drop off my brother at the sitter’s, so I don’t know where to go.” She fluttered her dark, somewhat clumpy black lashes against her cheeks and twirled a black-toed shoe on the cement. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes at her obvious flirtation.

John, apparently, didn’t mind, and swallowed in the way he often did when embarrassed and lifted his chin for confidence. “We were about to walk home just now, so why don’t you come along?”

She leapt with overdramatic excitement, hair sticking in the sheen of gloss on her lips. She pulled it out mindlessly as she said, “Oh, thank you! I was afraid I’d get lost here.”

John shifted his pack on his shoulder and chuckled in a forced way that Sherlock hated. “Yeah, the neighborhoods around here are sort of complicated. Street names and stuff.”

Digging his hands into his pocket with more strength than he probably should have, Sherlock sneered inside his head. _Complicated neighborhoods? Please. It’s a simple grid layout._

Charice giggled and walked ahead of them, swinging her thin, girlish hips. Sherlock watched as John’s blue eyes followed. Spite boiled in his stomach and he stayed put.

“I just remembered, I have to catch up on some reading for history. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said, turning and walking back towards the library. He winced at the way John shouted after him, but he didn’t turn around.

“Not again! Sherlock! Nevermind…” John sighed, watching Sherlock disappear around the corner. “I _hate_ when he does that. It’s like, I don’t mean to push him away!”

John suddenly realized Charice was standing there, looking awkward. “Er… Sorry, I don’t know him.”

They started walking, side by side, as John said, “He’s my best friend. He’s just weird around people.”

“I didn’t scare him away, did I?”

John shrugged. “Probably.”

The girl beside him furrowed her brows and looked away, uncomfortable. John didn’t notice or seem to care, he was still upset about Sherlock leaving them. His mind soon drifted onto other things as Charice began chatting away, down the road, and ended up walking in front of him. He was slightly interested in the slight curve of her hips and bum, even as it was hidden by her school uniform skirt. She turned back to look at him and get his opinion on whatever it was she was rattling about, and John found himself darting his eyes down to her barely-there chest. She was interesting to look at, and something in John seemed to coil and snap upon watching her pout her plump lips and lick them, but he really had no concern at all for what she was saying. And, when they got to her house, John leading the way through the street she mentioned, he almost forgot her name. She hugged him just the same and John was acutely aware of her small breasts pressing into his chests.

He walked home, head spinning with images of Charice’s bum and Sherlock’s, although he was much more preoccupied with where Sherlock’s was off to. He decided to mention it to him the next day, but put aside the actual confrontation for later.

Of course, that night, he was distracted. He was thinking about girls. 

Now, girls just seemed like something that liked him, since he never particularly liked them back. He knew what they stood for, that often they were confused for weak and useless, when they really weren’t (Harry made sure he knew this), but now there was something more interesting about them. Charice smelled nice and looked pretty and had nice lips. _Well,_ John thought, _Sherlock smells nice and looks pretty and has nice lips, too. And he is definitely not a girl._

He didn’t know how to feel about that last conclusion, but he decided that Sherlock was in his own category. Not to say that he didn’t find other boys in his class handsome, sometimes even hiding his blush when the cool ones talked to him, but the way he felt about Sherlock, how everything was interesting and incredible and fantastic… Well, he was Sherlock. He’d always felt like that. 

 _Who bloody knows,_ John said into his potatoes, ignoring how his mum and dad bickered over who’d spot the next shopping trip. Harriet also seemed preoccupied, and if John had known any better, he’d have said she’d been thinking about a boy. She hadn’t.

After dinner, John put himself to bed and thought about Sherlock and Charice, side by side. Both of them roused a sort of hotness in his stomach at thinking about their blushing faces and plump lips, but only when John thought of Sherlock rattling on about something, did he particularly care what he had to say. Whatever Charice, or any girl, really, had to say didn’t appeal to him. But with Sherlock, he cared so much, he noticed every little thing, and he wanted to spend all day with him. John didn’t want to spend all day with Charice. He just wanted to figure out what that feeling low in his stomach was when he hugged her.

His dreams brought the answer. 

That night, images of pale and tan skin mixed around in his head. It was a tangle of natural lips and glossy lips, curly dark hair and straight maroon hair. In the dream, John definitely felt a sort of interested hotness surrounding him and whoever he was with. It wasn’t graphic, but it wasn’t vague, and his cheeks burned when he awoke. Sweating a bit under his knees, something felt strange and different in his body, upon inspection, John was grateful for those awkward health videos they showed in sixth year. 

Now, that wasn’t the first or the last time John felt different about things regarding girls. With Sherlock, as he’d confronted him about disappearing again, he didn’t feel any different when he looked at him. He always blushed a bit when Sherlock met his eyes, his stomach always coiled when Sherlock laughed or touched his arm. All those little signs of the something that neither of them understood were still all there, they hadn’t gone away. 

It was with girls that John noticed a difference. He found himself mentally comparing them all to each other, rating their bodies, noting how the older girls had more chest than the younger ones. He often found himself lusting after the teenage girls that passed him in the halls or picked up their siblings after school. It was like something about girls had finally been introduced to him, although as the year progressed, he didn’t find any of them interesting enough to have Sherlock-type feelings for.

A few weeks before John’s twelfth birthday, John decided to ask Harry.

She was nine but definitely smart about things and definitely a girl. He didn’t want to talk to Sherlock about this stuff because he was sort of embarrassed about it, and truthfully, half the time, John’s head mixed up Sherlock and girls when his body twitched with interest. And then, afterwards, the feelings were simple enough to satisfy, but Sherlock still wormed his way into his head. He definitely didn’t want to mention that part to Sherlock.

“Harriet,” John said at the breakfast table one morning.

“What do you want?” she responded, going for the cereal that John brought over. 

“You’re a girl.”

She rolled her eyes, “Well noted.” 

“And girls like boys.”

His sister bristled and furrowed her brows as she shook some breakfast into her bowl. “I guess so.”

“So boys like girls.” 

Harriet poured a bit of milk before responding. “Stop being stupid, of course boys like bloody girls. You’re eleven, you should know this.” 

John reached for an orange and stopped to say, “Don’t swear. And don’t be rude.”

“Shut up. Mum’s not here.” She shoveled a spoonful of sweet corn into her mouth and crunched down, waiting for John to challenge her.

“Fine, okay. I know boys at my school who like girls, yeah, but I don’t know if they like girls or they _like_ girls. All they talk about is shagging.”

Harry gulped and almost laughed milk out of her nose. “John!”

“What, I’m serious. You know what that is, don’t tell me you don’t.”

She shrugged. “All right. So they talk about shagging, what’s wrong with that?”

“Well like, do boys at your school talk about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

John was getting irritated with both his sister and himself. He didn’t know what he was trying to ask, or even if Harry had an answer. He just wanted to confirm that boys his age or younger felt romantic towards girls, not just what Nathan called “the hots.”

“You know those old movies, when the guy and the girl get all romantic?”

“Mushy.”

“Right, mushy. Do the boys at your school feel mushy about girls?”

Harry looked right at John like he’d asked her the stupidest question in the world. _Of course people felt mushy about girls,_ she seemed to say. _I feel mushy about girls,_ she added mentally, hoping John didn’t catch it in her face. “Yes,” she said, swirling her cereal inconspicuously. “Boys at my school feel mushy about girls. Some of my boy friends tell me they think about holding hands and taking the girls on walks and stuff. Is that what you mean?”

“Yeah, yeah, it is.”

And then it was silent as John stuck his thumb under the orange peel and winced when it stung his fingernail. He separated the pieces and popped them into his mouth. Harry just ate her cereal quietly. When he was done with the orange, John then moved to the counter to make some toast as he said, “Thanks. Sorry, I was just - “

Harriet swung her feet under her chair and took another spoonful, speaking to John without looking back up at him. “Shouldn’t you’ve talked to Sherlock about this?”

“I… er, I don’t know. I don’t want to embarrass him.” John reached for the breadbox.

Mouth full, Harriet mumbled, “Why, does he not like talking about girls?”

John unwrapped a few slices as he turned back and said, “I don’t know if Sherlock even _likes_ girls.” 

* * *

Sherlock didn’t like girls, actually. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, since he didn’t really like anybody. Well, besides John. 

Every time someone asked him if he had a crush on a girl, he just shrugged and said, “Not really.”

They then followed with, “What does that mean?” 

He’d counter with, “I don’t really like anybody. People are boring.”

That usually shut them up. 

But it wasn’t like Sherlock was clueless about those kinds of things. He heard what the boys said, the lewd fantasies they played out in the library, comments like “the tits on that one.” It was stupid and he felt sorry for them. Didn’t they have anything better to do that gawk over girls? And in such a stupid way, too. Judging their bodies and such. They’re just _bodies,_ who bloody cares?

Apparently, plenty of people cared. Including John. It was weird, the way he mentioned it suddenly, since neither of them seemed particularly keen on the attention girls gave them. Then, one day, John was commenting on a girl’s leg in their fitness class. Sherlock responded awkwardly and John apologized, shutting up and never mentioning anything like that again.

He was still the same John, still laughing and talking to Sherlock, but now, he talked to the other guys more about stuff like girls. 

Sherlock didn’t understand it. Well, that’s not true, he did, but not personally. He read plenty of books where the masculine lead falls for the seductive, soft-bodied damsel, and every damn television show and advertisement featured a man and a woman as a couple. He knew that people fell in love, and he knew that with love came sex. But to him, it just seemed like a bother. And girls weren’t really interesting to him. They were often pretty and sometimes, a few of them were nice to talk to, but their attentions fell flat on Sherlock. He just simply wasn’t interested.

Which is why it was so weird to see John act interested. Talk to girls, look at girls, even have lunch surrounded by girls. 

To tell the truth, that sort of pushed them apart that year. John liked girls now. Sherlock didn’t. It wasn’t a big change, but it was a change, and while they still walked home and spent time together after school, Sherlock felt himself being pushed farther and farther away when the girls rushed to John.

It wasn’t weird for long, though, since Sherlock got used to it and stopped going to John when he saw him around campus. If they had lunch together, fine, but he wouldn’t cross the school just to get to him, since some brown-eyed doe always beat him to it.

All feelings, besides those he already had for his best friend, never got in the way of his studying, so it didn’t matter. He couldn’t sympathize with the boys who talked in the courtyard, and he never understood what was so great about an eleven-year-old girl’s legs. John’s legs, on the other hand, were much more interesting. With football kicking up again, John’s legs were more toned than ever, and Sherlock sometimes caught himself looking at them when John lay in his bed, just in shorts and an old t-shirt. 

Something always pinged his heart when John rolled over, comic book in hand, and laughed. Or when he told Sherlock he was brilliant, blue eyes afire with admiration.

Maybe that’s what people meant when they said they liked girls. They liked girls like Sherlock liked John.

But what did that even mean?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John, you trashy homoromantic bisexual, stop objectifying 11 year old girls.  
>   
> And lmao at Sherlock, the disinterested and unknowing gay grey-asexual (don't worry honey, you'll figure it out in a few years, remember that male teacher you had a crush on?)  
>   
> It seems like 11-12 is young for [dun dun dun] puberty, but when I was that age, boys were so fucking gross and horny (cringe at all the sexting), so I think it's accurate.  
>   
> Also, Harry likes girls and is a total feminist. I love her. When the heck are we meeting her?! Get to it, Mofftisson.  
>   
> And here's some news! For some reason, I thought it'd be a great idea to start another fic outside of this one. It's a johnlock AU based off Disney's Tangled, and it's called [Curled.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480592/chapters/10185629)
> 
> Lord let me sin in 10,000 ways and let them all be johnlock.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside, of course, he was breaking.

Something happened the summer between seventh and eighth year that neither John or Sherlock thought would ever happen. They’d grown apart. 

At twelve years old, both boys were incredibly moody and sensitive, and they just lost touch. They stopped accompanying their mothers on their visits to the other’s house, so it was easy to just let it fade away. They still remembered, of course, and sometimes they sat up in their rooms, looking at pictures and gifts and memorabilia, eyes sad and tired. They missed each other terribly, that much was painfully clear, but neither of them did anything about it. 

Now, how could this have happened? John and Sherlock were utterly inseparable. There was nothing and nobody that could take them from each other. But that proved untrue as John found new friends and Sherlock closed himself off once again. Towards the end of the last school year, they’d passed by in the hallways like strangers, and as summer came, they did the same on the street. They only acknowledged each other once when crossing paths. John had been playing scrap football with his mates as Sherlock head off to the library, Redbeard trailing behind happily. Redbeard saw John and was about to go to him, lick his blond eyebrows and funny nose, but Sherlock stepped in front of him and pushed him along, embarrassed. With Redbeard whining as he padded on ahead, Sherlock walked along the sidewalk stiffly and, the one time he looked back, met John’s eyes with a stab of regret.

Neither of them wanted this to happen, and if they could, they’d show up at the other’s house in the middle of the night and embrace each other tightly. As of late, however, neither of them really knew what that would actually mean. Was that just their way, as John and Sherlock, or was it not okay to do that as twelve-year-old boys?

Their classmates had set up vague rules that seemed to apply to them, and while John and Sherlock were never one to follow other people’s ideas, something about the snap in their voices and the joking nature of the male friendships had pained their sentimental hearts and they were forced to stop… whatever it was they’d been doing.

Over the summer, Sherlock was even more moody than usual, and now that Mycroft had been shipped off to university, he had the whole house to sulk. Sometimes he went into Mycroft’s study to use the telescope he left behind, sometimes just wanting to sleep in his brother’s room because there was less memory of John everywhere.

John, too, acted strange, but he masked it under constant activity. He called up his football mates, teased girls when they came to watch him play, and otherwise became the bright, incredible guy that Sherlock already knew him to be. Inside, of course, he was breaking.

Victoria and Elizabeth were concerned, as they should have been. Their sons no longer spent every waking minute together and had lost the sparkle in their blue eyes. Worried, Victoria sat Sherlock down early that summer and asked him where John was. Sherlock shrugged, “Probably at home.” 

“Well, why don’t we go see him? You’ve not seen him in ages.” 

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“What!? That’s not true, sweetie.”

Sherlock then left the table with a huff, voice cracking a bit, “Yes. It is.”

Victoria tried to get him to open up many times after that, but it was useless. He’d shut her out just as he had John. Victoria was left to call Elizabeth, heart heavy. 

Liz answered the phone, voice shaking as if she’d just been crying. “Vic?”

“I think our boys aren’t friends anymore.”

“I know. I’ve just talked to John.”

“What happened?”

Mrs Watson sighed on the other end of the line, a drawn out, shaky breath that Victoria wished she’d never have to hear. “John says Sherlock’s avoiding him. And he doesn’t really feel like trying to figure out why, so he’s just letting him.”

“God, I hate them.” 

“Victoria!”

Tapping her purple nails on the counter, Charles up in his study, Sherlock hiding somewhere, Victoria let out her own exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, Liz, but you know what I mean. They’re so clueless. I thought getting older would make things easier for them to understand.”

It sounded like Elizabeth had coiled the telephone cord around her finger. “Maybe we should just let it play out. Maybe it’s good for them to be apart.”

“John and Sherlock? Apart? That doesn’t make any sense. Not even for moody eighth years.”

“I know… I know. But we shouldn’t get involved too much, they have enough to worry about.”

“All right, let’s not get involved,” Victoria said. “Agree to keep an eye on them, though? Keep in touch about it?”

“Definitely.” 

The line went silent then, but Mrs Holmes knew Mrs Watson well enough to know that her breath ought not to be that shaken and small.

Victoria brushed a curl away from her forehead and rested a hand on her cheek. “Liz. How’s George?”

Something sounded strained in her voice, and a loud thud from somewhere else in the house made her squeak. “I - I’ll tell you later.” Then she hung up.

* * *

School wasn’t any easier than the summer for John and Sherlock. It was harder. It should have been easier, easier to just go about their lives, flit about in different friend groups, distract themselves with schoolwork, but they couldn’t. They didn’t. It was harder to avoid each other, actually, as they had a lot of the same classes. It was harder to see the other across a room, across the campus, and know that any year but this one he’d have been beside him. Fortunately, school meant Sherlock could let the masses of people, girls and boys, swallow John up before he even had to look at him.

They had new lessons, new teachers, and new bodies, but the newest thing of all was his absence. For Sherlock, he had no friends. He had nobody to express his giddiness at, eyes wide and intelligent, when he’d read a new book. He didn’t like people, and he didn’t like being touched, but he would have wanted every opportunity to see John. He’d want his arm around his waist as they walked if he could.

Then with John, he had lost the one person who really knew him. Now he wasn’t alone, with all the girls and friends, but he was still lonely. They were all stupid. They liked what he stood for, what he looked like, and how he gave them attention. They didn’t care about his interests, his sister, or his parents’ fighting. They didn’t care and they didn’t notice. Sherlock would have. Sherlock would have definitely noticed. And John would have told him, he’d have rushed over and let himself cry, ask Sherlock what he’d done wrong. And Sherlock would comfort him, sleep beside him, knees or bums touching, his breath warm and small and lovely on the pillow next to him. John hated how that wouldn’t be the case anymore. He bloody hated it.

It was early Autumn now, and John was sitting with Nathan and Dean and Cindy for lunch when he spotted Sherlock across the way. He’d know that curly brunet head anywhere, and now it was draped in a book, lean body sat up against a tree. John could see his profile and his sharp nose turned into the pages. He looked beautiful and smart. John looked on and wondered what he was reading, what he was thinking about.

Cindy nudged him and batted her eyelashes playfully, saying something that John wasn’t actually interested in. He caught bits of it. Apparently she’d had a fight with Charice over who got to sit with him at lunch. He just smiled and nodded. His mind was on Sherlock.

Sherlock was absolutely wonderful. He was smart and heroic and talented and creative and John knew him for real. He wasn’t “that smart kid,” and he wasn’t “the kid that got beat up when he was eight.” He was Sherlock, a total madman, and of late, the one thing John’s heart called to.

Maybe he didn’t really understand it, or let himself understand it, but after careful observation and his discussion with Harry, he realized that he didn’t feel about girls the way he felt about Sherlock. Girls were pretty and interesting and had tits, which were nice, but Sherlock felt different in his heart. He was so incredible and undeniably fascinating, so much more than a name. Sometimes he caught Sherlock’s eye during class, and his stomach tightened. His heart flipped, cheeks burning, before he looked away. When Cindy or Charice or Delilah looked at him, lust in their eyes, he felt nothing but a twitch of his groin. And most of the time, not even that.

And even if Sherlock was the most powerful force in his life, an east wind like Mycroft used to say, John found that sometimes, when Nathan put an arm around his shoulders protectively, part of him would heat up. Nathan was definitely attractive, with a large, bright smile and light chestnut hair. He reminded John of Mr. Embers, who, upon closer inspection, had given John the same flip of his heart that Sherlock and Nathan did. 

He never brought this up to anyone, of course. Not with the way the guys treated people “like that.” But John liked girls, in some aspects, so there really was no need to mention the other stuff. Be it girls or boys or both in his head when he showered, he’d only ever mention the girls. That seemed to clear things up with the guys, but definitely not within himself.

John had been staring at Sherlock for a good while now, and only when the lanky, tall body stood did John snap out of it. He followed Sherlock with his eyes as he moved across the courtyard and disappeared down a hall. Cindy was still babbling by the time he came back to earth.

* * *

The library had become Sherlock’s physical safe space. As much as it could be, anyway, as there were still some whispers and laughs whenever he beeped through the doors. And he would’ve receded into his mind, if in there it’d been any better. Usually he’d retreat into his head when he was sad or scared, and there he found John, smiling beside him. Now whenever he visited what he called his “mind palace,” John was the same, but his gut twisted and warped what he’d built up to comfort him. His mind swirled with lies, dark threats, and eventually, had John spouting insults at him. Insults he’d never said and would never say, but they sounded so real in Sherlock’s mind. The only thing he could do to get away from it was read, study, or play the violin. 

Even then, John was everywhere. Pink lips and small smirk and blond hair. Sherlock never caught a break from it.

But he tried to anyway, and the library seemed a better place to. Sherlock swept into his space, book under one arm, and went to sit at an empty table. He opened up his book again and resumed the fantastic world of foxes and hounds and owls, memory of John fading a bit. _Don’t go,_ he found himself saying.

Sherlock read for a bit, as long as the extended lunch allowed, until he heard a _pssst_ directed his way. 

Looking up and towards the sound, expecting a rude, unoriginal comment, his breath caught in his chest when that seemed not to be the case. A friendly-looking boy with messy black hair and thick-rimmed glasses smiled at him warmly. Sherlock had never seen him before and quickly deduced that he’d transferred. Sparing no time, the boy waved him over to his table. Sherlock rose from his seat nervously and went over, shocked and a bit pink in the face.

“Hello,” the boy purred. He had a lovely accent, and by the dark, beautiful shade of his skin, Sherlock deduced that he was desi. 

“Hello?”

“Sorry, my name’s Victor. Victor Trevor.” He held a hand out and Sherlock took it. It was warm and soft and Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken. The boy’s dark eyes gave Sherlock a once over before he spoke again. “I’m new here. Would you help me find my classes?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Thank you,” his accent rolled. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock.”

“Interesting. What do you want to study, Sherlock?”

Still confused about the natural kindness of the boy, Sherlock swallowed his embarrassment and tried to find his usual direct persona under the nervousness. “Criminal investigation. I want to be a detective.”

“Oh, how fascinating!” he smiled again, teeth bright and white against his lovely skin. A curl flopped over his dark brow. Sherlock wanted to brush it away. “I like science, myself. Chemistry and biology.”

“Me too.” Sherlock said, eyes searching for any flaw in the boy’s complexion or presentation. He found none.

Victor Trevor cocked his head, “Then we’ll get along fine.”

* * *

John was getting ready for football practice, tying on his shinguards and rolling his ankles, when he saw something that made his stomach coil. Sherlock was walking with someone, attention directed at him, hands flying like he was explaining something. If John could have seen his eyes, he knew they’d have glistening with his familiar spark of passion. The boys were light blue silhouettes in the distance, but John couldn’t bring himself to look away. They walked through the halls and past the field, standing close. Too close.

He could barely see what the other boy looked like, but he’d know it was Sherlock anywhere, so the jealousy was all there. The boy was shorter and darker, with curly hair like Sherlock’s. His hair seemed to fluff up where Sherlock’s sat atop his head like a mess of curls. John squinted and found that the stranger had glasses and carried book to his chest. They walked together and disappeared behind the building, John’s eyes still on them. Seamus called him out of it, and he quickly tried to remember where he was and what he was doing.

All throughout practice, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Had Sherlock really gone and replaced him? _He doesn’t want me anymore._  

John was angry and tense, and it threw off his game. He walked home in a rage and came home to a frazzled mum, shouting into the telephone. He walked into the kitchen, muddy and sweaty.

“I don’t care, George, it’s going to happen!” his mother spat, unlike her usual sweetness. 

The kitchen clock ticked on, deathly quiet behind the echo of voices. “Mum?”

“Er, John’s here, I’ll talk to you later. Bye… honey.” She uncoiled the cord from her wrist and put in the holder, shifting herself in front of the phone with little subtlety. “Hi, Johnny.”

He set his football bag down at his feet and watched as his mother crossed her thin ankles and smiled at him with saccharine sweetness. “What’s going on? Was that Dad?”

“Yes, he’s staying late at work tonight. What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.” This was a lie, he was very hungry, but alongside the grumbling in his stomach, spite boiled in his veins, and he could only think of that boy walking with Sherlock. He picked up his bag and began retreating into his room when his mother stopped him.

“John.”

He rolled his head over his shoulder as if it pained him to be held up. Looking at his mother now, she seemed so tired and old. Still beautiful, but not as lively and spritely as she had been. Her pretty blonde hair had bits of grey around her ears and she’d adopted George’s sleepless eyes. Her lips were still pink and pleasant when she talked, but for some reason, John felt like he didn’t know her like he used to. She’d been distant lately, just like Sherlock. Everyone was distant, now. John felt like it was his fault. _Everything’s always my fault._

“Your father and I were thinking it might be nice for you to take up some extracurricular activities. I know you have football and rugby and friends, but just a little something.”

John relaxed his shoulders a bit, genuine curiosity mixing with irritation. “Like what?”

She swirled her toe in the carpet, pink toenail polish glinting in the unflattering kitchen light. The frogs on her pink pajama bottoms felt out of place. John couldn’t help but stare at them as she talked. “An instrument, maybe? It could take your mind off things, you know, come home and practice. I think it could be good for you.”

“Sherlock plays an instrument.” _Sherlock._

“I know, and he seemed to like it. What do you think? The clarinet, maybe? It might help.”

John looked right at her. He looked right into the eyes that had picked him up so many times, helped him in so many ways. Now he found they pleaded with him. Almost disappointed, but more sad than anything. He breathed. He may be moody, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what his mum was trying to do. She wanted to distract him from everything in his life that was going wrong. She hoped that if he came home and played the clarinet in his room, he wouldn’t be able to hear her crying or fighting with his father. And the extra practice might take his mind off Sherlock, who she knew wasn’t in his life anymore. 

He stiffened his shoulders. One of them popped. “Fine. I’ll play the clarinet. I’ll fit it in somewhere.”

“Weekends?”

“Sure. Weekends.”

“Thanks, honey. I think it’ll be good for you to, er, hone your talents.”

“Right. I’m going to shower now.”

His mum smiled warmly, but her eyes stayed cold. “Okay, sweetheart.”

John nodded curtly and left the kitchen. Things were all going to shit, but apparently, it’d all be saved by playing the clarinet. 

He snorted. _Not bloody likely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me really sad. I love our boys, and I know what it's like to go from best friends to strangers quickly. It's worse when you're so close to having something, too. 
> 
> Things gotta get worse before they get better, though, that's all I'm sayin'. Brace yourself for these next few years.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything fell like lifeless puppets around him, his mind and heart all tying up into one.

Hanging around with Victor was nice. It wasn’t like being with John, but then, Victor wasn’t John, so of course it wasn’t the same. But it was still nice. He had a good smile, and he always asked Sherlock how he was feeling. Sherlock missed John, obviously, but as year nine came, he and John still hadn’t spoken.

Most of the time, Sherlock could bear it. He could bear it when girls talked to John and when boys whisked him away for practice. It was easy to get by when John, for the most part, was off his mind. He would study a bit, talk to Victor, and study a bit more. It was simple, easy, and less… exciting.

But Sherlock missed exciting. He missed the fights John would get in when someone called Sherlock weird, and he missed going on adventures with John and Redbeard through the marshes behind his house. Now, he only talked to Victor at school. Afterwards, he’d come home and hide away once again. There was no after school hang outs, no lounging around, no John dripping off the edge of his bed like a melting clock. It was quiet. It was fine.

Yes, things were just fine. He knew that many things were changing for his peers, finding hair and discovering girls and whatnot, but nothing that interesting really happened to Sherlock. Sure, he’d gotten a bit thicker in his muscles, and he was still growing like a weed, but otherwise, he was just floating along. Thirteen and disinterested, mostly.

John, on the other hand, was suffering deeply. He’d worked up a sort of reputation for himself, as much as he could, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want the girls, he didn’t want the status, he didn’t want the girls that came with it, and he certainly didn’t want people to think they knew him.

All John wanted was Sherlock. He wanted his friend back, his other half. He saw Victor and Sherlock all the time, all the bloody time, together, smiling. John felt jealousy and envy and irritation and anger and sadness all bubble up inside him at once, even if the two other boys just lounged around, reading.

Everything was hard on him. Harry was older now, and a few creeps from her classes always teased her. To John, she was still the sticky baby that Mycroft liked to bounce around, but apparently she was much more interesting as an eleven-year-old. Which was a bit fucked up, John thought. 

And along with Harry, his mother had really drifted away. Her eyes glazed over, empty and cold, and he rarely saw her smile. When he did, it was pained and unnatural, and John didn’t like it at all. He knew something was happening. He wasn’t stupid, and even with the clarinet lessons leaving squeaked notes ringing through the house, John could still hear the fighting.

His parents were losing it, it was clear. The spark that married couples supposedly had wasn’t there anymore, if it ever was. More often than not, his dad slept somewhere else. A friend’s house, or a motel, and if they were lucky, just the couch. His mother was always sad, passing it off as exhaustion, waving a shaky hand through the air to lesson the intensity.

Despite his mum’s attempts to keep it light, John could see that everything was crumbling. He knew it was only a matter of time until everything collapsed, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Everything was shitty, moody, and terrible with him. Every day felt like hell, even if everything went right.

Today was no different. It was October, and Sherlock and Victor had been paired up on a science project. John hung around with Dean, which was easy enough, since he was good at labs and such. Not as good as Sherlock, obviously. No one was.

The classroom buzzed with voices and the ting of graduated cylinders. John was scowling in the direction of Victor and Sherlock, who were working together well, pleasant smiles on their faces. Victor poured a solution into their cylinder as Sherlock, with his big, beautiful eyes, checked for the meniscus, squatted beside the table.

Dean, doing all of their science project, kept his focus down when a girl padded over to talk to John. John didn’t know her name. He didn’t care. 

“Hey, Johnny…” she said, saccharine voice almost inaudible under the noise of the classroom. John’s eyes darted to her momentarily, then back to Sherlock, then over to Mr. Hart, their science teacher. He wasn’t paying any attention to any of the students. Naturally, half of them were doing absolutely nothing. 

John raised his head off his forearms and looked at the girl. Her eyebrows looked funny. “Hey,” he offered solemnly. 

“How’s your… your er, lab going?”

“It’s going,” John said.

That might have been the wrong thing to say because the girl looked like she didn’t understand. Just the same, she twitched her purple-painted lips and said, “Do… D’you think you could help me with mine?”

“Probably not,” he grumbled, eyes falling once again on Sherlock and Victor. He looked back quickly, just in case, and added, “Just kidding.”

John looked at the girl, and it made him sad. Not because she looked worthless, but because she looked worthy. She obviously had some sort of need to stand out, based on her lipstick and earrings, and when he tried to place a name to her face, he recognized her as one of the brightest girls in his class. So why would she be dumbing herself down for John? He thought it was stupid he didn’t like. All these capable, smart girls, lusting after him because he’d gained a bit more muscle and his voice wasn’t as squeaky as the other boys’. It made him sad, girls like this, because he could only imagine someone like Harry, his sister, brilliant and outspoken and quick as a whip, pretending like she couldn’t measure liquids for some _bloke._

Apparently, as he was thinking this, the girl had said something and was now waiting for an answer. “John?”

“Er, sorry. I’m not really too good at this lesson. Why don’t you ask someone else?” _Wow._

She tapped her fingers on the counter, dragged her pointer through a puddle, and looked over to Dean, who was smirking behind his cylinder at John’s buffoonery. “What about you, D? Think you can help a girl out?”

“Grace,” he said without looking up, “You and Bri finished this lab ten minutes ago. Stop playing dumb and leave us alone, will ya?”

Grace took offense and huffed, storming away and leaving John to regard Dean curiously. Dean wasn’t one for confrontation, only acting forward on the field, so this was definitely interesting.

“Nice.” John said, half-way between _Thank you_ and _How did you pull that off?_

Dean shrugged and tapped the side of the glass, stubborn drops slipping down the side and into the rest of the fluid. He seemed to understand what John meant and responded, “You’ve so many girls all over you these days. You don’t seem in the mood for it today.”

John sighed. Something in his neck hurt terribly, and he tried to roll it out. “I’m not.”

“What’s on your mind, mate?” Dean asked then, wiping his hands on his shirt and leaning against the counter. 

Eyeing him, John was quite aware of how attractive his friend was. Thick brows and a good nose, grey eyes and a strong chin. He looked less boyish than the other guys, and a bit more handsome. He wasn’t old or anything, but along with Nathan and Seamus, Dean’s athleticism worked for him. 

Swallowing, John started. There was no use in lying about it, not with Dean. “I think my mum and dad are breaking up. And my sister is getting picked on. And I - “ _really miss Sherlock…_ “I don’t really know what to do.”

Dean crossed his arms, tilting his head so his jaw stood out a bit in the yellow classroom light. “That’s rough. Are your parents seeing anybody for it, like, a therapist?”

“I don’t think so. We don’t have the money. And it might be too late, anyway.”

“And your sister? Does she tell you she’s being teased?”

“No, but I know she is. She snaps when she shouldn’t, and often the things she was most confident about make her nervous now. Like the way she wears her hair and stuff. It used to be all colorful with clips and shit, and now it’s sort of plain. I know it seems like that shouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s just a little bit of color gone out her, you know?”

Grey eyes held steady. “I get it. Have you talked to her about it, told her what you want to say?”

“I don’t know what to say, that’s the thing.”

“Tell her you’re worried. That she can come to you any time. That you’re her big brother, and you’ll protect her if she needs it.” 

John looked at Dean then, sort of at a loss for words. He hadn’t really seen this side of him, this helpful, friendly, _kind_ bloke. He regarded John pleasantly, understanding and soft in tone. He never told John his worries were irrational or pointless, and he looked at John seriously as he spoke. It sort of shed Dean in a new light for John, really. 

Suddenly aware of his slight, minuscule crush rising, John darted his eyes away and breathed sharply. “Th-thanks. I’ll try to talk to her. Yeah, I will… Anyway. How’s the solution coming?”

Catching a glimpse of Dean’s smile then, John’s stomach curled as Dean said, “It’s coming. Just letting the levels settle now.”

Then it was silent, John stealing a glimpse of his friend as Dean mindlessly looked around the room. When his eyes came back to settle on John, John looked away shyly. He found himself looking once again at Sherlock. Sherlock, who was just now looking at Victor the way he used to look at John. John felt the corners of his mouth tighten up.

“Are you…” Dean started. “Are you sure there’s nothing else on your mind?”

John looked back to Dean, who was glancing between him and Sherlock on the other side of the room. The look seemed empathetic and genuine, but John was embarrassed and defensive just the same. “No,” he said firmly, straightening himself up against the counter. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but then again, John knew his lies weren’t convincing.

* * *

After science class, Sherlock and Victor walked the halls together. Victor babbled on about some science fiction comic he liked, beautiful accent rolling through every word. Sherlock liked listening to him. He liked how his dark eyes gleamed when he got excited, and how he used his nimble hands to mimic the actions. It reminded him of John, but everything did, so that wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising was when a girl Sherlock had never met popped up just as Victor disappeared into the bathroom.

“So,” she said, arms folded across a book, smile threatening to become a sneer. “Are you guys like, a thing?”

Sherlock’s stomach coiled up, heat creeping up his pale neck. He’d thought about it a lot, actually, but to have someone say it so outright was… Unwelcome, to say the least. “No? No. We’re not.”

Bodies in the hallway brushed past them, uncaring, unknowing. She moved closer to him, and he caught a whiff of her strawberry-scented perfume. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the situation, really, as he could only see it ending poorly, but something fierce inside him kept him walking straight ahead. She trailed alongside him, breathing in his space, eyeing him suspiciously.

“But you are gay, aren’t you?”

That same something fierce suddenly froze up. Fortunately, his tongue remained quick and he spat out denial, “No. Leave me alone.”

“So you like girls?”

“I said leave me alone.”

A tall twelfth year pushed past them, and Sherlock felt smaller than ever.

The girl pushed on, relentless and rutheless. “If you don’t like girls, then you must like boys. And you’ve been hanging around Victor quite a lot.”

They exited the hallway and into the open courtyard. Sherlock was glad of it, because he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. He took one sweep of fresh air into his lungs and turned to her quickly, steadying his own shaking hands by clasping his notebook ’til his knuckles went white. “Stop it. Stop it, leave me alone!” He shouted at her, eyes afire, throat closing up. He turned away then and began to storm off.

“What about John Watson, you guys were close for a long time. What happened there?” She called after him.

Sherlock’s mind was a mess, his heart beat rapidly, and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed a stone. His veins were icy and hot all at the same time, and he only heard part of what the girl said, blood rushing to redden his skin. He didn’t care what she had to say, but he cared that she said John’s name. That cut through his embarrassed haze easily. John always did, no matter what.

 _John._ John. What did John have to do with this? Everything. He had everything to do with this. But what is this? _Gay. She said gay,_ Sherlock thought. _This has to do with gay._

People had thrown the term around all over the place, especially these past few years. They slapped it around like something to be ashamed of, oftentimes synonymous with git. Sherlock knew what it meant, as he’d often caught snippets of dialogue from Mycroft, and sometimes, he even went looking. Books proved useful, sometimes more graphic than he’d like, and it seemed plausible that he could be it, as he never fancied girls, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt it may not work for him. It didn’t work for him because he wasn’t in love with any men. Or boys, he supposed.

But… Wasn’t he?

Was he not in love with John?

Sherlock stopped half-way across the courtyard, breath catching in his throat. Everything fell like lifeless puppets around him, his mind and heart all tying up into one. 

He was in love with John.

_I’m in love with John. I’m… Of course I am. He’s… He’s John. He’s everything._

Sherlock's heart fluttered wildly in his chest, lips playfully tugging themselves into a foolish smile. How John made him feel, this giddiness, had come back in a rush, more powerful than ever. It was almost overwhelming, really. Breathtaking.

He tried to maintain his composure.  _Right,_ he thought, urging himself to think rationally, despite the assault of messy mind palace excitement.  _All right. Okay. So. John. John is… wonderful. My favorite person in the whole world. He’s been there, always. And I love him. I know I do. I love him, and I am in love with him._

After saying it again, Sherlock felt like everything had clicked into place, even as his surroundings went fuzzy. Everything besides this string of thought seemed unimportant, and this one thought was sharper than all of it.

All of his questions had been answered, just here and now, by this thought. And, while he didn’t want to think of anything other than John, his questions about Victor seemed to answer themselves subconsciously. Victor was charming and friendly and if Sherlock was indeed gay, of course he’d feel inclined to spend time with him.

Sherlock didn’t know if he was smiling in place, spinning, or what, but he knew that he loved John. He knew this, and he could feel his mind buzzing, heart thrumming. _John, of course it’s John. It’s always John. He keeps me right. He’s the bravest, kindest, wisest person I’ve ever known. He’s charming and silly and creative and passionate and I love him, God, I love him._

It felt so good to say, and Sherlock let himself say it, chanting it like a mantra. His mind flashed snippets of life with John, all the times they’d laughed, flushed, and beamed. Brushing hands over passing off the cereal, tickle fights, and sleeping together in the same bed, waking up feeling warm and safe.

Sherlock felt safe with him. Obviously, he was Sherlock’s companion. His best friend. His one and only, since birth.

Something sharp hit him then, striking and painful like an icy arrow. _But he’s not… We’re not… We’re not friends anymore. He doesn’t like me anymore. We’re not anything anymore._

All of Sherlock’s previously excited, romantic air fell as quickly as it’d come. He remembered the current situation and where he stood. The rose-colored glasses fell away and shattered when they hit the ground, so to speak. Everything was real once again. Sherlock saw the students and the buildings. He was back to real life. And in real life… they hadn’t been friends for ages. 

Sherlock’s face fell, and he breathed small little breaths as he went about his business, pleading his tremulous legs to move. He didn’t let on that anything was wrong as he moved across the school. 

His heart hurt, when only moments before, he’d finally felt it beating.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but an important one!  
> So, guess where I am? In my dorm! It's perfect and cozy with an amazing view. I've set up all my posters (including these trashy babes) and everything feels right at home. This is my second night here, and I'm already feeling accustomed to it. I know I'll fit in fic writing between classes and the like, I just know it. Anyway, enough about real life.
> 
> A few things about this chapter:  
> 1) I sort of ship Dean and John. Whatever, they're cute. Fight me.  
> 2) Victor is the sweetest thing ever. I can just picture him going on and on about space travel.  
> 3) LMAO SHERLOCK U DUMB FUCK, FINALLY! also u gay af 
> 
> Also, I know a lot of the "villainous" characters in this fic have been nosy, horny girls. And it's not because I hate women, actually, I'd sort of prefer a female-dominated world [shrugs] BUT for John and Sherlock, girls are quite the obstacle. John likes them, mostly, and they like him. Sherlock doesn't like them. And also, 13yo girls are really not that great. No 13yo's are, actually.
> 
> And one more thing, the whole "if you don't like girls, then you must like boys" is totally aromantic/asexual erasure. Some people don't like anyone in those ways, and that's totally fine. But most people don't know that/are ignorant, so for that girl to be like "one or the other!" is not a reflection of my own personal ideas. I'm ace af, after all.
> 
> Okay, enough notes. See you next chapter! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traces of golden boys and red dogs played at the corners of his restless dreams, and he awoke from them in a sheen of sweat.

The summer before tenth year, when John was fourteen, his mother sat him and Harry down at the kitchen table. 

“Your father is leaving us,” she said.

Neither John nor Harry were surprised, and they didn’t make any sort of reaction. They knew it was coming, now it had come, and they had nothing to say. 

Their mother, whose pretty golden hair went limp and dry with the stress of it all, looked at each of their faces, sighed, and stood from the table. She left them without so much as a pat on the head. There was no need for comfort. George Watson hadn’t been an active part of his family for years, and if the children were being honest with themselves, they didn’t feel so much as a sliver of love for him.

School came then, both of them bumbling around in their classes, feeling a bit more empty than usual.

“How was your summer holiday?” friends would ask them. They’d make some sort of noncommittal hum or vague statement, pretending summer was fine and not long enough. In truth, their minds could only replay the dull distraction in their mother’s eyes, the hollow scrape of baggage against hardwood, and the resounding silence of knowing their father had gone for good. 

And while it was new for him to have actually left, it wasn’t any different, really, from the days he stayed in a motel. It was a wonder Mr and Mrs Watson had played the charade for so long, really. Years of struggling until finally, like a crumbling building, the foundations of their relationship turned to dust.

John and Harry continued on. They had a few friends who kept them interested in things: new classes, teachers, and gossip, but for the most part, the days dragged on for the Watson children. Harry was a bit more interested in the game than John, but she was twelve now, and everything goes to shit at twelve. 

Harry was moody, compulsive, and beginning to swell up. The latter had gained her a bit of attention from the greasy boys in her class, which she clearly wanted nothing to do with. Instead, she found herself drawn to her close female friends. She liked being around them, as they made her feel safe and loved. And, Harry knew this quite well, she truly loved them. She loved a few of them, one in particular, the way she was supposed to love boys. But nobody’s _supposed_ to be anything, and this was something Harry struggled to understand. Just the same, throughout the year, she found herself sneaking kisses from glossy lips in the gym or nuzzling her nose into perfumed necks behind the tool shed. 

Things weren’t any better for John. They weren’t better at all, actually. He’d completely lost himself. Any shred of uniqueness that once thrived had been smothered in the mass of homework, practice, and female attention. His parents’ split didn’t hurt him too much, not really, not in comparison to how his friend’s parents’ struggles hurt them, but just the same, his father’s abandonment added to the long list of reasons why everything was shitty.

The worst, of course, was Sherlock. The absence of him, the deep, deep pain of missing him. John still saw him around school, but he’d been so weird around John this past year. He’d stare at him from across the hallway and take a bit longer to look back to Victor. Sometimes he smiled at him in a class, or at least John thought he did, but the smile fell sadly and he darted his beautiful eyes away. It was strange, especially how adamantly Sherlock had avoided him since they broke up. Now, it seemed like he was lingering just around the edge of John’s life. He had no idea that John wanted him at the heart of it, that it made him dull and lifeless and incomplete without him in it.

Time went on. John hoped every day would be the day Sherlock would come back, wrap him up in his new height, and let John kiss that ridiculous stretch of pale neck.

A few months into school, though John wasn’t really counting, a new girl transferred to their class. She was slim and pretty, with mousy brown hair and a plethora of pins on her leather bag. Her name was Sarah, and as she came into John’s science class, she soon proved herself to be incredibly smart, especially in regards to the human body.

“I want to go into medicine,” she told John once, as Dean had dragged him over to introduce himself. 

“Oh, me too.” John said. 

Sarah smiled, Dean raised an eyebrow, and two weeks later, John and Sarah were dating. 

He didn’t really know how it happened, or even how he was supposed to act. He flirted with girls all the time, but there were so many of them, and now there was only one. Dean and Nathan and Seamus told him how to act, with what little knowledge they had, as they wiped the sweat from the back of their necks during practice. They told him to call her pretty, but not too much, to kiss her cheeks and forehead in public, and to make sure he ate lunch with her every day. They nudged each other when John asked what happened after that. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” they said.

John nodded and followed their instructions, smiling, but empty and pining for Sherlock. He didn’t feel things for Sarah like he felt for Sherlock or, truthfully, Dean, and he was quite aware of this. But Sarah was sweet and pretty and had a bit of tits, and John found it was better just to date her, try as best as he could to push Sherlock out of his head. With one constant in his life, a girlfriend, hopefully everything else would fall into place.

He played along as best he could, and it turned out, Sarah was fine. She talked to him about the things he was interested in, which made a change from the lame smalltalk other ditzy girls tried on him. Sarah was different, she was interesting and smart and, John found, incredibly strong. She could hit a ball out of the ballpark in a scrap game of baseball, or pin him down as they wrestled. 

This, obviously, let to snogging. Just a bit, about a month in, on John’s bed. It wasn’t intensely passionate, but it was the first time John had really kissed someone, and he definitely liked it. It made him warm and horny and heady, and it wasn’t bad at all.

What was bad was Sherlock’s face when he saw Sarah. John didn’t know what it meant, or even if he was really seeing it, as it was just a fleeting flash of _something_ , but every time Sarah kissed his cheek or held his hand, with Sherlock there to witness, John’s heart sank, time stopped, and he felt terrible.

For a moment, just once, he caught the traces of pain in Sherlock’s eyes, and it made him think Sherlock might be missing him. He might want to be friends again, and if he did, John was sure he’d leave Sarah for Sherlock. Without a doubt. 

So he had to keep himself from thinking about it. And it was easy to, sort of, when Sarah let him kiss her and touch her chest and bum.

* * *

A few days into his realization of love for John, Sherlock would wake up feeling light and content. He understood so much more, not everything, of course, but more. He knew what the butterflies in his stomach meant, and how those rare occasions in which his groin would twitch at the thought of John were just more experimental proof of his love for him. Being in love with John, at least for those waking moments, felt as easy as slipping into old shoes.

Naturally, he soon remembered how things stood now, and everything was back to uncomfortable sadness. Those blissful mornings died away, and what was left was deep, gloomy pining. He had already missed John so much it felt like part of him died, and it only worsened when he realized how hopelessly in love he was. And while there was next to nothing in regards of hope for getting back what they had, at least he could face seeing John. It hurt him, deep in his bones, but it was better than not seeing him at all. Not seeing him at all would be worse than death. In fact, Sherlock was sure he’d gladly take death over it. It was a dramatic, ridiculous thought, but Sherlock just sighed whenever he thought of it, a ghost of _Well, love,_ on his lips.

Sherlock continued on, though, no matter the pain in his heart. He’d talk to Victor, do his work, and outsmart his teachers. Summer dragged on, and with a few visits from Victor for school purposes, Sherlock spent the summer alone in his room. Sometimes in the backyard, sometimes in the sitting room, and sometimes on the roof, but mostly in his room. Of course, everywhere he went, Redbeard went too. He wasn’t alone when Redbeard was there, and it always helped to have his dog there.

Redbeard had been his constant through most of the pain in his young life. When he was beaten by Colton, a full six years previous, Redbeard had snuffled his wet nose into Sherlock’s neck and slept with him when it seemed the only thing Sherlock could do to numb the physical pain was sleep. And now, as Sherlock wallowed in his wasted love, he told Redbeard that he should have realized it sooner, that maybe it would have made things different. Redbeard curled beside him through it all, whimpering and snuffling and lapping up Sherlock’s salty tears.

It seemed his dog hurt as much as Sherlock did, as Redbeard loved John just as much. John was a part of both of their lives, from the day Redbeard came to him, and his loss broke both of their hearts.

Redbeard padding along behind him as Sherlock readied himself for the first day of tenth year, Sherlock turned and pet his head, promising that he’d be back soon. He trudged along his way then, wondering why on earth he couldn’t bring his dog along to school and have him, oversized and slobbery, in his lap at his desk. 

He arrived at school and met up with Victor, who chatted about his summer, how his extended family had come, and how they feasted for multiple days. Sherlock hummed along happily, relieved to have some familiar comfort back in his life. That comfort was short-lived, naturally, as he spotted John, handsome as ever, across the campus.

Sherlock looked at him longingly. He was sure Victor knew, or if he didn’t, had some inkling about the whole thing. He never said anything, though, so Sherlock let himself sigh deeply, his shoulders sagging with the weight of a heavy heart.

This happened often, as he’d catch a glimpse of John milling about with his friends, or even chewing on the end of his pencil in class. He’d gaze at him, wishing they could have back what they had before. John sometimes turned towards him, catching Sherlock looking. His eyes, the eyes Sherlock had looked into for more than a decade, had the shadows of memory enveloping him, and Sherlock had to force himself to look away to remain sane.

Sherlock observed, hopelessly, that John was growing more beautiful by the day. He’d been coming out of his childish looks for a few years now, but recently, he’d been bulking up a bit in the chest and arms, face sharpening itself into a handsome, smoldering countenance. Sherlock was smitten. Absolutely, wholly, and inappropriately attracted to his physical appearance, which only drove his desperate love deeper.

The boy who Sherlock had spent his childhood with, their history almost brotherly, was now the direct object of his tremendous affections, and it wore on him every day.

Late into the fall, a new girl appeared, and with her sudden rise to stardom in medical sciences, she stole John’s heart away. Sherlock watched it all unfold from the sidelines, listening with a bitten lip to the whispers in his classes. His stomach coiled in panic and he had to close his eyes and retreat into a happy memory, one that included John, to shield himself from the curling sadness.

The first day he really saw them together, laughing and smiling during lunch, with his arm around her, and her head on his chest, Sherlock hoped the courtyard would swallow him whole. It was the same feeling that Colton’s kicks left in him, but instead of his ribs, this time, it was his heart which held the bruise.

John’s was never his to lose, and he knew that, but it sure as hell felt like it now. It was stupid and wrong and unnecessary to be so affected by it, when years unsaid had passed between them, but the sight of them seared a burn into him as if he’d caught them in an act of adultery. 

It was easy to deal with watching John flirt with other girls, well, easy enough, as Sherlock could see his disinterest in them. Sometimes he even verbally shut them down. There were girls, a lot of girls, and sometimes Sherlock swore there was something there with Dean. But now there was just one, just one person John paid the most attention to. She sat there, pleasant in her school uniform, touching John and kissing him and dating him, staying at his side always, and as silly as it sounded, Sherlock felt that it ought to have been him. 

He tore his eyes away as best he could and continued the rest of the day with his chin held high, if only to keep the tears within his eyes.

However, when he got home that day, image of them together played in loops ’til it was madness in his head, he let the tears fall. He felt broken and hopeless and stupid and he rushed into the kitchen and collapsed on the table in a heap. He half-hoped that Mycroft was surprise visiting, as he really did miss him and needed him more than ever, but he knew that he was off somewhere, gallivanting happily as a 22-year-old. Sherlock was alone, completely alone, dripping all over his sleeves. It was a long while before his mother appeared, silently, slipping into the kitchen with a small gasp.

Startled, he looked up at her, snotty and wet. Her eyes were wide with worry, and she asked him what was wrong as softly as she could.

Sherlock wanted to say everything, that everything was wrong, from the way John smiled at someone else to the way he was reacting now. He felt there was too much to say, and what he creaked out instead surprised him.

“He likes _girls_ , mummy!” 

He lamented it with strain in his voice, gritting through his teeth as hot tears fell into the crinkles of his cheeks. It was much too forward and out of place to say, especially considering how he’d been treating his mother since he and John split, but she was there, and he was hurting, and he missed her. He missed everything.

She sat beside him, knowing quite well who he meant. “Oh, honey…” She placed a hand on his shoulder tenderly. Sherlock let her.

A few seconds of silence settled in, assuring Sherlock that she wouldn’t say anything else unless he wanted her to. He didn’t know what he wanted, but apparently, he had more to say, so he let himself sob it out. “He has a girlfriend. Her name is Sarah.” He hated himself for knowing so much, for perking his ears and snooping to learn her name.

“Sherlock…”

He went on, voice trembling. “Which means he doesn’t like me. He’s never liked me, and there is no chance that he’ll ever like me.”

Victoria rubbed circles into his back now, unsure of what to say. “He’s John, honey, he’ll always like you.”

“Not the way I like him.” 

The confession sounded weird to him, as he’d never admitted it out loud to anyone but Redbeard. It was heavy and salty in his mouth, or perhaps that was just his tongue swelling up from how hard he bit it to keep in the screams.

“Oh…” As Sherlock lay his head back onto the table, trembling in sobs, Victoria understood. Not like she’d ever _not_ understood, but she assumed Sherlock’s undeniable romantic feelings for John sort of fizzled away as their friendship had. Apparently, her son was still desperately in love with his ex-best friend, and it was clear it’d always been. Sherlock may have realized this, even, considering the intensity with which his shoulders shook now. It was a lasting pain, pain that no silly schoolboy crush could counter. This was long term heartbreak. Victoria knew that. Sherlock knew that. 

She rubbed his back as silence rang through the kitchen, save for Sherlock’s sniffling sobs. She lay her head on his and pulled him into her chest. It’d been a while since he’d let her, and she took it eagerly. They stayed like that for a long time, a sad young boy crying quietly in his mother’s arms. He’d been so distant, but now, against her breast, he was small and tiny and sad. He was innocent and pure and desperate for love, just like a baby, a Victoria’s heart ached for him.

After a few minutes, when Sherlock’s sobs had eased a bit, she sighed. She contemplated humming a melody to him, but that might have been too much, even for Sherlock. Instead, she spoke gently, lips in her son’s curls. “Sherlock. There’s something I have to tell you.”

He trembled a bit in her grasp, pulling back tenderly to look at her. He was snotty and raw, his eyes red rimmed and wet, tears streaking down his cheeks and collecting in the corners of his nose. She couldn’t bear to look at it, so she pulled his head back to her breast, entwining her fingers in the curls at the base of his neck.

“I don’t… Know how to say this, sweetheart…” Victoria breathed, furrowing her brows. She really didn’t know how to say it, but she had to. A tear of her own escaped her tired eyes as she said, plainly as she could possibly bear, “Redbeard died.”

Sherlock bristled in her arms and inched back from her chest, slowly and calmly. He didn’t say anything.

“He was hit by a car, honey, there was nothing I could do. Your father’s going to - ”

“No…” It was a tiny, broken sound.

“Honey, please, I’m sorry.”

“No. _No_." He wouldn’t look at her. He kept his head down as he removed himself from her arms and stood up on shaky legs. He backed away, folding his arms over his chest, hunching over a bit like his heart had just caved in on itself. “Stop it.”

Victoria reached out a hand, “Sherlock, I don’t -“

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, eyes gliding over the kitchen tiles. 

“I know, honey, but it happened so fast and I - “

“Where’s John?” 

“John’s not - “

Sherlock drew a shaky breath. “John’s _not._ Redbeard’s _not._ They’re not, they’re not, they’re not.” He mumbled incoherent denial for a bit, swaying on the spot and wringing his hands. Then, like something inside him switched off, he stopped. He pulled his face up against the low kitchen light. His lip not so much as quivered, eyes cold and hard, brows strong and defiant. Despite this, tears still slid from his dead eyes, wet and thick. They dripped from his chin. Victoria watched as he turned away and left, leaving nothing but teardrops on the tiles.

Sherlock walked on numb legs up to his room, shut himself in with a slam of the door, and curled inside his blankets. 

He really cried then. For John, for Redbeard, for the careless, thoughtless timing of his mother, and for the shadow of a half-lived life that he curled into now. His stomach hurt and gnawed at his insides as he cried and cried, sometimes shuddering with dry sobs, other times laying still, tears pooling in a large stain on his pillow.

This continued all night. He didn’t leave his bed, skipped dinner, and drifted in and out of thin sleep. Traces of golden boys and red dogs played at the corners of his restless dreams, and he awoke from them in a sheen of sweat. His heart broke that night, a deep, clawing ache in his chest that left him empty and terribly sad.

It had broken for John, knowing that there was not even one shred of hope left for them, for the life they might have had. It broke for Redbeard, who was happy and healthy and loving, and who would never be at his side again. It broke for the two things he loved most in all this world, the two things that he’d never be with ever again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry at all~


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of what they’d once had, John went on.

Eleventh year had come, and everyone Sherlock and John’s age were antsy to grow out of childhood. At fifteen, everything was sex and mood swings and exhaustion. All of the ridiculousness of the past few years had reached a boiling point, and every confusing thought or feeling was now buzzing out of control. Luckily, this was the last year of secondary school. Soon they’d be in college and working through their sixth forms, hoping to finally be at peace in university.

They weren’t there yet, though, and things were still happening. Things were starting and ending and breaking and mending, and everyone was struggling.

Sherlock, however, was not. He was through with struggling. He was through with wild emotions, through with crying for lost boys. He’d had enough of that over the last few years. So now, as he tried to act (and look) older, with a sharp face and a sneer for the overly cheerful, he cast it all away. It was useless, all of it, and it didn’t help anything.

He’d spy, leaning up against a wall with with judgmental eyes, moody and brooding, on all the lonely people. He’d see the boys and girls cry over their girlfriends and boyfriends; the sniveling faces of friends who broke up, made up, and broke up again; and the haughty air in which top students pretended they weren’t hopelessly spiraling downwards with the use of recreational drugs. Sure, maybe all of this, this after school special, could have waited a few more years, at least until uni. The kids of Wisbech were never ones for waiting, though. Everything was rushing, changing, quick. It had to be when stuck in such a disaster town.

And Sherlock had to leave it, he had to. He’d seen it all, been to all the stores and carnivals, seen all the landscapes, and walked the streets at night. He was tired of it and _God_ , so ready to leave. He was ready to leave all the sorry memories behind… Memories of his lost boy.

That didn’t mean he’d take down the pictures in his bedroom, though.

So he sat now, early November, in his room, suddenly very tired of it all. He felt empty and quite rightly so, as there was no brick-colored body curled into him, black wet nose pressing into his jaw. He was without comfort, without a companion, and without any desire to try to fix things.

Still, he cast his eyes at each of the pictures and mementos around the room. The smiling faces of he and John decorated his walls, as well as medals and science awards and certificates of completion. On the shelves sat the taller, heavier things like snow globes from holidays and platinum record displays. Collecting dust now, these trinkets seemed much smaller than they were when he’d gotten them. 

The trophy John had given him from his first football game was much shorter than it’d seemed that day, when John had wrapped an arm ‘round Sherlock’s middle and said, “This is for you, Sherlock, you made this possible!” Sherlock had only blushed in response, unable to thank him properly. John, who tended to romanticize things a bit, was right, he had made it possible. He’d deduced a weak spot in the offensive line and planned out a path for John and the team’s sweeper to pass through based on the assumed patterns of the opposing players. They followed his plan and scored easily. With that confidence, they scored again and again, winning their sectionals. 

Sherlock thought John might’ve kissed him that day, the way he looked only at him, eyes going all funny, as his team cheered around them. He didn’t, though. Of course he didn’t. Sherlock hadn’t known then why he was so disappointed that he hadn’t, but he knew now. Sherlock closed his eyes now, lost to the memory. 

They’d only been nine, but he’d loved John just as fiercely then as he did now.

Yes, Sherlock still loved John. It wasn’t even a question. He always would, even after he moved away and packed the photos of them and Redbeard into a dusty box. Even after he’d meet some bloke he liked second-best, even after he couldn’t really remember the color of John’s football jersey or the way his laugh went husky after a long while. Even after it all, he’d still love him. He knew he would.

And that hurt so _bloody_ much. He may have sworn off emotion and any sort of codependent relationship, he may have drifted apart from Victor and his parents, but Sherlock would never, never forget John. Even if it hurt like Hell.

He lay in his room that Sunday afternoon, allowing himself to feel all that he suppressed during the week. He stared at his ceiling until his eyes closed from exhaustion. He might’ve cried. He didn’t really remember, though.

* * *

John had never been so nervous. He wasn’t this nervous when he was about to score the winning shot in the county championships, he wasn’t this nervous when he told his sister he liked boys, and he wasn’t this nervous when breaking up with Sarah. This was something else entirely.

This was Sherlock.

John paced around his room early on a Sunday morning and ran over why he decided to do this. It’d been after his dad left and after he was getting pretty serious with Sarah when he realized nothing was making him happy. He was jealous of Sherlock and Victor, and while Sarah was nice to kiss, he never once got the image of perfect cupid’s bow lips out his head as he kissed her. And even if heavy petting satisfied him for a while, he realized it wasn’t great if he wasn’t really _into_ whoever’s bum he groped. At fifteen, sex often was the only important thing, but as John realized, he didn’t want sex with Sarah. He just wanted to be friends with Sherlock again, or just… be with him. He was still working out the details. 

So he broke up with her five and a half months after their first date. He sat her on her bed and took her hand, unsure how to start. He did it, though. Ungracefully, mind you. She cried, and he felt horrible. He didn’t know how to comfort her, so he just ignored her sniffling and urged her not to tell anyone that they’d broken up. Not for his own reputation, since he didn’t give a damn about that, but because everything was actually pretty normal for a bit. They could still sit together at lunch, if Sarah wanted, but John just couldn’t be with her anymore. She didn’t understand and just kept crying.

He wasn’t gentle in the slightest and actually failed miserably at consoling her, since they just ended up snogging one last time, but when they pulled back and Sarah took her hand from John’s thigh, eyes puffy and red, she asked if there was another girl.

John looked into her face, a face he had actually sought comfort in, even if it wasn’t all sharp lines and startling eyes like Sherlock’s. She was kind, and John liked her, so he decided he owed her the truth. “Sort of,” he’d said.

He then explained to her, as vaguely as he could, that over the past few months, he’d realized that he really missed his childhood best friend. More than anyone else in his life, even. More than his dad and his friends who transferred schools, more than his favorite rockstars who’d dropped out of the scene. John told Sarah that it hurt him so much that they weren’t friends anymore, more than anything had ever hurt. He said he was pretty confused about it, but since he trusted her and actually didn’t give a damn if the secret got out, he told her he thought it might have been something akin to a crush.

She blanched and gaped at him, but after John’s bedroom clock ticked through seven seconds, she sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I understand. I won’t tell.”

John believed her, and they broke up while still acting like they were dating. It wasn’t too hard, and it wasn’t a big sneaky thing, they just didn’t change their routine. Eventually, people got bored of them and they could drift apart at the end of the year. Dean asked John if they’d broken up, and John shrugged. “Guess so.”

Sarah had found a new boy by the time eleventh year had started. John, naturally, was still deeply pining.

But he’d had enough of pining. He wanted to act. And, truly, he didn’t even know why he and Sherlock weren’t friends anymore. John honestly could not remember. He couldn’t remember the day they just up and decided not to be together anymore, either. It was a slow decline of seeing each other, talking to each other. It was stupid.

So here he was, urging himself to do it. Just go to Sherlock’s house, knock on the door, and beg for him back. 

That wouldn’t be so hard, right?

* * *

John turned around six times on his walk to Sherlock’s house. He panicked, second-guessed himself, and found any reason not to follow through. Then he remembered Sherlock’s eyes, or his lips, or his laugh, or the way he draped off his bed, upside-down. John thought of ghost stories and fantasy worlds and football games. He thought of Redbeard and Victoria and Mycroft, how, for so long, he’d been a part of Sherlock’s family.

Then he’d swivel again and walk a few more paces until the panic returned.

He went on nonetheless. While nervous and timid, he distracted himself as much as he could by observing the houses and yards and people milling about. He saw golden pups play on lawns and little old ladies peep out of windows. On a Sunday morning, the road was pretty quiet, unassuming. Nobody in these houses knew that John was attempting to change the course of his life. If they saw him out of their windows, they’d just see a scrappy teen with a black shirt, faded jeans, and a worn rugby jacket shuffling up the road, stopping and glancing back every now and then.

John stopped again, hands in his pockets, and looked up. Eyes on the sky, he noted how the sky went a bit grey as it neared the horizon. It blanketed the town and neighborhood in a silver haze, few clouds dark and grey as they passed the sun.

It wasn’t a bad town, really, and this particular stretch of road was very pleasant, homely, even. It was just so… _them_. So many memories of the two of them running up and down the sidewalk to and from school, scraping their knees by riding wooden skateboards down the hill of Sherlock’s house, playing scrap football as the sky went pink and orange. John looked back at his own sad little house at the end of the block and imagined his mother, skinny and pretty and happy, leaning in the doorway.

“It’s getting late, boys,” she’d say. “Come on inside.”

“Oh, mum, can’t we stay out a bit longer? It’s not even dark yet!” Little John would plead, little Sherlock nudging into him and stealing the ball from his feet.

A smile that he hadn’t seen in so long would grace his mother’s face, and as little Harriet appeared behind her mother’s hip, shy and watching the boys play, Mrs Watson would say, “Oh, all right. Just come in before it gets cold. And watch out for cars.” 

Before she’d even finished her last sentence, John was chasing Sherlock and taking the ball from him.

He remembered, John did, all of that. He remembered so much from their life together, mostly because that’s all it ever was - their life. Together. From birth, through childhood, to now. It was all he was, everything he was made of. Regarding it now, his chest ached. All of that innocent friendship had just… burned out as they grew up. 

 _Maybe that’s the natural course of things? Losing old friends?_ John thought. _No. No, not with us. There’s no reason we can’t still be friends. We promised forever._

John squeezed his eyes to release the doubt and turned back towards his destination. Thinking of what they’d once had, John went on. 

He had to get it back, or, if he couldn’t, he had to remind Sherlock of what used to be good. 

John scuffed his feet over the pavement as he walked, staring at his shoes as he neared the driveway of the Holmes estate. Swallowing and allowing himself a large sigh, he slicked his fingers through his golden hair and pushed on, up, up the long driveway, stomach coiling as the grand manor loomed ahead.

Everything was tingling nerves and butterflies in his stomach when he reached the door. Stalling himself a bit, John glanced around the front of the house, at the vase-shaped cement pots with vines and greenery creeping over them, at the little pathway that led to the back area, and the delicate curve of the golden doorknob. He glanced up to Sherlock’s window, high in the house and foggy from various flecks of crystallized chemical solutions. The light wasn’t on, as it was day, but John could feel him in there. Urging himself to look away, he noticed that Victoria and Charles weren’t home, as their cars were gone. He was grateful for that, sort of. He wouldn’t know how to explain his sudden appearance. _Hi, remember me? I’m a ghost from your son’s past. I’m here to win him back._

Speaking of ghosts, the house, which John had always found magnificent, felt more like a haunted mansion as he looked upon it now. Haunted with good memories, memories of silliness and drowsy movie nights. Those memories might have been worse, actually, than painful ones.

All the same, it was a distant life, and John wished to God that it could be his again. 

Standing on the steps for a long while, he breathed as quietly as he could and winced at the way it trembled in his lungs. Maybe there was still a chance for him to run back to his house and curl under the blankets and sleep - pretend none of this had happened.

But it did, it certainly did. Everything had happened. Sherlock had happened. 

John pressed his lips together and reached out a fist. He knocked with his knuckles and bit his lip. 

Nervous was an understatement.

* * *

The knock roused Sherlock from his half-asleep state. He felt as if he’d almost imagined it, and after a tense moment, it came again. Sherlock sat up in bed, feeling a bit lightheaded and drunk from reminiscing. He pulled himself back to the present and listened curiously for another knock, but none came. He then padded out of his room on bare feet and down the stairs, trailing a hand down the bannister, eyes a bit blurry, legs a bit heavy.

He didn’t want to get up, and thus wished his parents were home. They’d have answered it, they’d have been able to deal with the salesman. Sherlock wasn’t really in the mood to entertain a smiling person with a box of sweets or Jesus pamphlets. He’d rather tell them to fuck off. He knew he shouldn’t, though, so as he went through the halls, he straightened his t-shirt and fluffed his curls. He wiped the grime from his eyes and looked at his toes as he reached for the doorknob. 

Pulling the door open with a whoosh of air, Sherlock met the eyes of the person on the other side. His breath hitched.

* * *

John’s breath caught at the sight of Sherlock. His heart flipped. Sherlock looked messy and untucked, dressed in a small white t-shirt with the faded name and picture of their favorite band and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His eyes were just as bright as ever under the strong brow and mess of dark curls, but as this was the first time in many, many years that John had seen him so close, he couldn’t help but note how soft and approachable he looked. He was beautiful, God, completely and undeniably beautiful.

He looked older, so much older, and a bit worn down. His cheeks still flushed pink, though, and his lips were still as pretty and plump as ever. 

John let himself stare, especially as Sherlock stared back. They just stood on either side of the doorway, Sherlock’s hand still on the doorknob, John’s hands tucked into his pockets. Nobody spoke for a long, long time. John was fairly certain that Sherlock would snap out of it at any moment and close the door on him. He didn’t. He just stared on, lips falling open gently as if he was so close to saying something.

Knowing Sherlock, he wouldn’t, not when he had that dopey look on his face, so John had to pull it together and speak first. He cleared his throat. Everything felt hot. “Hi,” he squeaked.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but his lips twitched like he wanted to.

“Sherlock,” John heard himself say. 

Again, nothing.

“Sherlock, please.”

“John.”

_Finally._

“Sherlock.”

“What are you doing here.”

It wasn’t a question, Hell, it wasn’t even a statement. It was a string of words, sounds. It was like Sherlock held a knife to his throat, eyes pinning him in place. They had John’s stomach tightening, knees threatening to give out. He held on just the same.

“I… I need to talk to you.”

“Why.”

“Because… I…” John was suddenly very interested in the design of the wooden door. He looked at the carvings, the glass patterns, and then back to the ridiculous teenager standing before him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes never left John’s face, even as John glanced behind him and into the house. He missed the house. He missed Sherlock. “I miss you.”

John hadn’t meant to say that, at least not right away, but it seemed to be the right thing to snap Sherlock out of his trance. Something passed across Sherlock’s face and he shook it away, eyes suddenly darting frantically around the place, panicking. It reminded John of a spooked horse.

“Where’s Sarah?” Sherlock said then, locking his legs tight and raising his chin.

“What?”

“Where is Sarah?”

“Why on _earth_ would she be here, Sherlock?”

“She’s your -“

John cut him off, “Not anymore.”

Sherlock bristled. He didn’t say anything.

John tried not to be irritated with Sherlock, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk about Sarah. He wanted to talk about _them_ , remind Sherlock of all they’d been through, all they could have had these past three years. What he really wanted to do, though, was wrap his arms around Sherlock and breathe him in. Kiss his neck, touch his waist, feel him hum against him. He didn’t act on that desire, though. He stood awkwardly in the doorway and clenched his fists, which had somehow escaped his pockets.  

“Look,” John said, “I don’t know what happened.”

“We’re not friends anymore, John.” Sherlock reminded him, stinging.

John grit his teeth, nearly wincing. “Yeah, okay, we’re not. But I don’t know why.”

“We’re just not.” Sherlock shrugged. John hated how nonchalant he was being about it. _God, from wanting to kiss him to wanting to punch him. I’m a mess,_ John thought. He then realized that he’d just admitted to wanting to kiss him. Or, had he already admitted that before? _God, just… Think about that later, John._

He pressed on. He was never good at this sort of stuff, but damn, he was going to try. “Okay. We’re not. I get that. But I… I want to be. And… And I don’t know why you avoid me. Or, why we avoided each other. I just don’t know.”

Another quiet moment passed. Sherlock seemed to have the answer, but he wasn’t saying it. Instead, he took his hand off the doorknob and leaned in the frame, crossing his arms. Then he whispered, “Me neither.”

John’s heart leapt. “Then why the fuck did we let it happen?”

“People change, John.”

“What does that even mean!?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “We grew up.”

“No, we didn’t. You just left me.” _You left me._

Sherlock straightened up in the doorway. His eyes were hard and no longer the color of the sky. They were more the color of a raging ocean. John thought Sherlock would drown him in them. Frankly, he’d let him. “ _You_ left _me_.”

“No.”

“Yes. For other people.”

“No, no, I didn’t want that.”

“Sarah.”

“What about her?”

“You… didn’t need me. You had her.”

That was the closest Sherlock had come to showing any sort of emotion, and with the crack of his voice and the cast of his eyes at his feet, John saw everything. Well, almost everything. He took it, then, this new flood of information, and knew that his own honesty had to go further. If anything was going to change, he’d have to open up just a bit more. They couldn’t go in circles anymore.

“Sherlock… Sarah could never replace you. Never.” _No one could._ “…No one could.”

Sherlock raised his eyes and met John’s. There was something there, and fuck, it was incredible. It was also so, so sad. John couldn’t really handle it. “Really?” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, ‘course. I didn’t even like her that much.” John have a half-hearted chuckle.

They were back to… whatever nonchalance hid the weight of it. A certain kind of distance, perhaps. 

“Then why did you date her?” 

“It would be weirder if I hadn’t.” _They all expected me to. I didn’t really want to. I only wanted you._ John said this to himself as he steadied a hand on the doorframe. He looked at his knuckles, the smooth skin of the back of his hand. Silly, how they still stood here, John on the porch, Sherlock in the house. John didn’t care, really. They were here. They were talking.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, I didn’t either. But it’s over now and… and I want to be friends again. Can we be friends again?”

John thought Sherlock would wait for ages to respond to this, but he surprised him. Immediately, he moved out of the doorway and gestured inside. “Welcome back, John.”

* * *

The events of that Sunday replayed in Sherlock’s head as soon as John left. He said he had some paper to write or something, so he didn’t stay over, but not before Sherlock’s parents could come home and welcome him back, invite him to stay for dinner. They didn’t ask where he’d gone, they only told him they were glad to see him. They were good like that. Charles told Sherlock he liked John, he was a good boy, and Victoria beamed at Sherlock as soon as he walked John out the door.

He flushed and waved her off before going back up to his room. He flopped into bed, mentally exhausted but buzzing with excitement. He lay in the same position as he’d been in that morning, but everything was different.

After John had come in, they didn’t speak about the time he was gone. The time in which they weren’t together. It went back to normal, albeit, a bit more tense, but still normal. Sherlock made John tea, and they sat on the couch. They ate leftover Halloween candy and talked about their plans for next year. As the afternoon wore on, they settled in for a movie, knees brushing on the couch. They could feel the other glance over, every now and again, and it had them in a state of nervous, semi-arousal all through the film. After that, Sherlock brought them up to his room (after cleaning up and dusting off pictures, of course) and sat John on the bed. He then told him about Redbeard and how he wished he would have called him the moment it happened. John said he wished he’d called him, too. 

When Sherlock’s parents came home, John had dinner with them and told them about sports and school. He was a paragon of a boy you’d take home to your parents, pleasant and gentle and smart. He went on about rugby and football and his positions, about his projects at school and his continuous interest in medicine and the military. Naturally, the topic of John’s parents came up. It was awkward when Charles asked, and Victoria nudged him under the table, but John was unfazed. He calmly expressed how his father didn’t want anything to do with them and that really, it was better for all of them. He then told them that his mother was doing better since the split and that his little sister wasn’t so little anymore. Victoria and Charles responded with an anecdote about Mycroft, where he was and who he’d met through his internships. John listened politely, even expressing that he sort of missed Sherlock’s older brother.

After dinner, John and Sherlock sat in the den, drowsy off good food and never sparing a moment to feel familiar again. Sherlock and John couldn’t even remember what they talked about, they just remembered that it felt natural. Like slipping into an old worn coat or coming back to a tradition that had been abandoned. It was easy and comfortable and undeniably wonderful. When John had to leave, Sherlock walked him outside. They struggled not to hug and ended up shaking hands. They laughed about it and admitted it was awkward, but parted ways just the same. They went back to their own rooms, John walking down the street in the dark, Sherlock climbing the stairs. Both of their hearts thrumming. 

John didn’t get his paper done. His head was in no place for schoolwork.

They both lay in their own beds now, smiling stupidly. Life was good again.

Sure, a bit more confusing, and there were some things, especially for John, that had to be worked out, but it was back to Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. It was back to the duo that holed away in the corner of their pre-school classroom and refused to play with the other children.

John thought about Sherlock until he fell asleep. It took a while for him to, and when he did, he awoke soon after. He’d dreamt of Sherlock, quite vividly, and startled awake, riled and steamy in the middle of the night. He’d dreamt of sweatpants and Sherlock’s bum and the strip of skin that showed when he reached for the tin above the fridge. And, while he certainly had felt some sort of _this_ when he was with Sarah, this was unlike anything he’d felt yet. It was powerful and confusing and erotic and romantic. He ended up staying awake the rest of the night, even after he took care of the persistent problem the dream had left him with. He thought of Sherlock all night, all memory of him, all of him.

By morning, he had figured it out. He’d always loved Sherlock, of course. Now, however, he’d found that he was _in love_ with Sherlock. Everything fit into place then, all the pining and tension and the ridiculous need to be his friend again. It wasn’t just that he missed Sherlock as a friend, he missed Sherlock because he was _Sherlock_ and he was _in love_ with Sherlock.

It was quite a lot to take in, surely, but John had never felt so relieved. And, after the initial admission, it was actually relatively easy to understand. Maybe he’d known all along, no, he _definitely_ knew all along. He just hadn’t allowed himself to say it. But he had, and it was fine. He was with Sherlock again. He was with the boy he was in love with again.

John rose with the sun, showered, wanked again, and braced himself to see Sherlock. They’d agreed to walk to school together for the first time in years. John, with Sherlock in his thoughts and a green apple in hand, rushed out the door as the morning neared their meeting time, happiest he’d been in a long time. He was happy and hopeful and finally _aware._

Sherlock, on the other hand, had been aware of his feelings for John for a few years, and after a few hours of excited tittering about being with him again, slept easy.

He dreamt of John, knowing that this time, the dream could continue into the day. It wouldn’t be a nightmare anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while to come, friends, some emotional shit happened and I was in no place to write this shitpot of a chapter.  
> But AH! WHAT A CHAPTER! Fuck, I've been dreaming about this scene since I started this fic. John showing up at his door, literally begging for him back as if they'd broken up (hadn't they?)  
>   
> Anyway, college is still happening but so is my love for this fic, so don't worry. It will be complete and it will be good.  
>   
> But you should know that I'm also in love with [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480592/chapters/10185629) fic, my Tangled/Sherlock crossover, and I would so _love_ if you (a fan of both Tangled and Sherlock, perhaps) read this johnlock beaut.  
>   
>  Okay, that's enough notes. Please leave a comment, tell me what you think, or message me on [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com)! I'm hungry for interaction, always.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a comfortable life, the best they’d ever known.

This last year, Sherlock decided, had been better than all of the previous years in which he and John were friends. They were out of secondary school, out of Wisbech Academy, and finally in college. Even just a different school, a few towns over, had changed so much. Everything was better, so, _so_ much better. 

People cared less about the minuscule problems that plagued them in eleventh year, and most of the students had grown up just enough to leave Sherlock alone. And, as he and John were together again, everything was good. They went out together, on the town, and every corner of Wisbech and its surrounding towns that had previously been uninteresting, suddenly burst with new magic when John stood beside Sherlock, quizzing him about the history of it.

Their families, now rid of the lethargic, abusive existence of George Watson, reconnected. Victoria and Elizabeth fell back in step, just like Sherlock and John, and Harry found she had much in common with Sherlock’s dad. It was clear that she missed Mycroft, the Holmes she adored most, but as he was busy with adult things, off trailing threats around England, she settled for the quiet but devoted father.

And while the families connected in a peaceful, steady hum, John and Sherlock went back to electric celebration.

Holidays and birthdays brought a new excitement, and as Sherlock and John were both now sixteen, they finally felt that they were allowed to _do_ things. On Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday, mates from school took him out to a rollerskating rink and then sneaked a few beers and cigarettes to him around the back, beside the dumpsters. Smoke curled from their lips as they swallowed down the bitter alcohol, but the woozy state of mind was welcome and they felt rebellious and cool. Sherlock found he liked smoking quite a bit, and he took every drag deep into his lungs. John didn’t like smoking as much as drinking, and Sherlock found the pink glow in his cheeks as he got tipsy to be quite interesting. They laughed and shared stories and dipped back inside the rink when they heard sirens. Sherlock liked it, he really did, and he ended the night with smoking one last cigarette from his birthday pack on the deck behind his house, feeling high as sated as John slept in his room, in his bed.

It was nice to have Greg, Molly, Dean, Nathan, and Seamus there at his birthday, and other celebrations, too (as John had properly introduced them to Sherlock a few weeks after appearing at his door), but it always John who mattered most. Obviously. 

Sherlock had never been so in love. This made sense, considering it was always John, from the moment their mothers set them together, but still. It was like unlike anything he’d felt for him before. It was sizzling and new and often scary, but his affections still retained that sweet, friendly familiarity of all things John. 

Now that they were older, not the pudgy-faced pre-schoolers hiding in the beanbags, they were a bit more mature about things. True, they were only sixteen, but the difference between two ten-year-old friends and sixteen-year-old friends was prominent. At ten, they knew how much they meant to each other, and they were more comfortable with saying so, but now… The weight of it was much more real. They finally understood what it meant to be lifelong friends, and how crucial the other was to their overall wellbeing. And, they now knew what it was like to lose each other. It was something they mutually agreed to never let happen again.

Of course, as they were only sixteen, some things still went unsaid. Sherlock hadn’t told John that he was in love with him, and John, unbeknownst to Sherlock, hadn’t told Sherlock the same. 

However, the romantic (and suddenly, sexual) tension between them was paramount. When they walked, their elbows brushed, sometimes turning into a playful nudge, and Sherlock would catch the smirk on John’s face. When John introduced Sherlock to his friends, he put his hand at the small of his back, a calming presence urging him forward as he said, “This is my Sherlock, I mean, my best friend, Sherlock.” They both blushed as Dean quirked a brow knowingly. 

They spent every moment they could together - in class, at home. They teamed up on projects and, with John’s common sense of how to work the system, and Sherlock’s endless intelligence, they always scored the highest marks. Afterwards, they’d come home (home meaning either of their houses), and relax into a steady, domestic lifestyle. Sometimes they’d watch music videos on telly, Sherlock’s feet in John’s lap, and sometimes Sherlock would spend the afternoon experimenting, John sweeping into the kitchen for a snack and placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, leaning over and saying “Whassat?” 

It was a comfortable life, the best they’d ever known. And, greedy as they were, they never let the meaning of it slip through their fingers.

At every opportunity they had, Sherlock and John would call each other his best friend. There was too many years between them in which they hadn’t said that, and they adored being able to talk so freely. They told the girls from other towns who asked them out that they were busy that night, going to see a movie “with my best friend.” When the teachers asked them why they always chose each other as partners, they’d say, “We’re best friends.” Best friend, in their eyes, was the highest thing they could be, more meaningful than when the other kids said it to each other. 

Higher than that, though, which they never used in public, was something akin to “My John,” or “My Sherlock.” It was possessive and truly gross, but it fit everything they were to each other, everything the two of them meant.

Actually, as their first year of college continued, the line between best friends and something more blurred deeper than it ever had. Along with the possessiveness came a new attraction, which could easily be described as physical reaction, both romantic and sexual.

Sherlock was now aware, painfully, of his own physical attraction to John, something that hadn’t really existed inside him for anyone else. He’d researched the symptoms here and there, but none of it really made sense for him personally. Before, he often thought the desire to touch a loved one was exaggerated - the flexing hands when pulled apart, the feverish touch of skin on bare skin. It seemed tedious and dramatic. 

Then, when John happened, it all made sense. He’d use Sherlock’s shower after a sleepover, come out in just a towel over his hips, droplets of water rolling down the muscles in his arms and torso, and Sherlock would react just as the textbook had predicted. Butterflies, a creeping blush, and a spiraling arousal in his low stomach and groin. Strange, and definitely new, but Sherlock had always been one for new information, and after a few weeks of experimentation, he figured it out. He learned how to calm himself when around John and how to satisfy himself when alone. After a while, all the electricity balanced out into a steady, familiar attraction. Naturally, there were moments in which it sparked, mostly catching John undressing in the locker rooms or stretching out on the couch, strong arms pulled taut under his head, but overall, his attraction was bearable. It had to be, as he spent every moment with him, and couldn’t very well abscond to wank the moment John groaned after dying in a video game.

He’d felt something like this before for John, but there was always the nagging threat that the feelings weren’t reciprocated. The girls, the jokes, his standing as a popular kid: it all kept John away from potential… gayness. Or, something like that.

But now, now Sherlock felt there was slight chance that perhaps John thought of him the same, romantically and sexually. As he understood the evidence of attraction, he could see John’s pupils dilate when they talked, or the blush in his cheeks when darted his eyes away from Sherlock’s appearance in living room, in his favorite low-riding sweats and tight shirt. It was a glimmer of hope, and Sherlock took it hungrily.

John, too, felt the newfound sexual tension between them. As he was a sexual being by nature, he was partly ashamed of his lewd thoughts about Sherlock. Sherlock had never seemed to be one for any of that, and he wasn’t even sure how he’d take it if he deduced his naughty thoughts. John assumed he’d probably be horrified at how John was so eager to ruin something as pure as their brother-like friendship. But, in all honesty, that didn’t keep him from touching himself late at night, sometimes even seconds after talking to Sherlock on the phone. His voice, now tipping deep and gravelly from puberty, had him hot and bothered, and his attraction was nearly insatiable. Everything in regards to Sherlock had him swollen in the groin and blushing. The smell of him, the sight of him in a small shirt and shorts, the flawless canvas of his pale skin, and the way he’d sometimes lean his head on John’s shoulder, breath warm on his neck, when watching a movie. John would feel bad about it, actually, thinking so sexually of his best friend, if he hadn’t discovered his own romantic attraction to him. He knew he didn’t _just_ want to see a blush creeping up Sherlock’s neck, moaning beneath him as John rolled into him (he’d done his research, too), but that he also wanted to pull him into his arms afterwards and talk about their future together.

It was absolutely ridiculous, and John knew it, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The attraction between them, platonic or otherwise, may have just started revealing itself to them, but it had been painfully obvious to everyone who saw them together. Many of the professors in college assumed they were dating, which only a few really had problems with. They never said anything, though, considering judging their students’ personal lives wouldn’t be in their best interest as professors. Their classmates, too, who were less interested in other people’s drama than previous years, still whispered about them when they walked by, smiling at each other. 

And, most smug of all, were Victoria and Elizabeth. They beamed at their sons when they hurried into the kitchen for dinner, when they curled up on the couch to watch telly, or when they retreated back up to Sherlock’s room to do… whatever it was they did. Which, at this point, could be anything, and Victoria and Elizabeth wouldn’t mind in the slightest. They whispered about them, sure that soon, something would happen, if it hadn’t already. The struggles and the sadness of their previous lives were no more - all that remained was John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. Together, together, finally. 

* * *

At the end of March, on John’s seventeenth birthday,  he invited his mates (and Sherlock, of course) out to a concert in the next town over. All the boys stood ‘round in the concert hall, teasing John about his goals for the next year, before the opening band came out. They were good, enthusiastic and talented, blaring music from their speakers, but John and his friends were eager for the main act. After half an hour of opener, the band finally arrived, handsome and regal in the stage lights. Sherlock and John stared up from the floor at their idols, at their swaying hips and hearty vocals. The five men onstage towered over the five boys in the pit, both in talent and power, but the fans gave as much as heart as the performers, and the concert was a huge success. 

There was no denying that Sherlock, John, and Dean were all a bit infatuated with the performance. Nathan and Seamus liked it well enough, but they weren’t as giddy and blushy as the other boys were. 

After the show, they clambered onto the train as it barely ticked past midnight, talking loudly and rudely, as teenage boys do, all the way back to Wisbech. John’s mates walked with John and Sherlock through the dark, sleeping town until they stopped off at their own streets. Sherlock and John were left then to walk back to their own neighborhood, arms brushing.

Perhaps it was the smoke around them at the concert, or just the magic of the birthday night, but John and Sherlock felt more clingy with each other. They ended up linking arms as they walked up the street towards John’s house.

When they stumbled inside, Victoria and Elizabeth were still up, drinking tea and whispering about something. They stopped immediately as the boys appeared in the kitchen, unlinking their arms moments too late. 

“How was the concert?” Elizabeth asked as Victoria snickered at Sherlock’s dopey face, loving on John with soft eyes. 

“Good. Loud. Still good. Band was great.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That’s good. Are you boys going to stay up?”

John shook his head.

“No?” 

“No, we’re pretty tired.”

Elizabeth swirled the teabag in her mug. “Okay. Do you want something to eat?”

“No,” John said, glancing at Sherlock for his opinion. Sherlock said nothing, meaning no, he wasn’t hungry. He used to not eat as much, but recently, John found he had a surprisingly insatiable appetite.

“Not staying up, not hungry… Then you ought to get to bed. Get washed up and we’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” John and Sherlock chimed.

They moved to kiss their mothers goodnight, and Elizabeth and Victoria tried to ignore the smell of smoke and sweat on them. 

John and Sherlock swayed through the kitchen, headed for John’s room, when Victoria called after them. 

“Happy birthday, John.”

“Thanks,” he turned back and smiled at her. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him like a son, and she couldn’t think of anyone more suited for her own.

They left the kitchen, and Elizabeth and Victoria shared a knowing look. At this point, it was just a matter of time.

* * *

John showered in his parent’s bedroom as Sherlock showered in the main bathroom. It was quick, as they were both eager to get back together to talk about the concert, but it was necessary. They were sweaty and smelly and itching with the feeling of other people. Showering in warm water and lathering up heavily, they rinsed away the grime of the concert while the memory remained. They brushed their teeth and combed their hair, secretly primping themselves to look handsome for the other.

So, clean and (mostly) dry, they dressed and met back in John’s room. Sherlock was clad in his silk pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt (that might have been John’s, truth be told), while John sported just his checkered pants and a sleeping shirt.

John was sat in bed, remote to his dad’s old television in hand, when Sherlock crawled up on the bed beside him, under the blankets. 

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” John said back, clicking the television to mute. Some old movie played, tones of silver and blue dancing in the dark room. It caught the color in Sherlock’s eyes, and John found himself smiling at him as he shifted deeper into the sheets.

“You have a good birthday?” Sherlock asked, laying his damp curls on John’s pillow.

John shuffled down next to him, so that they were both lying on their sides, hands tucked up their heads. “Fantastic. They were so good.”

“They really were.”

It was silent, just the light breathing of the two boys in John’s bedroom.

Then Sherlock said, “It was nice to see the guys again.”

“Yeah. I mean, we see them every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

He did. “I do.”

The scene on the television changed to something orange and Sherlock’s blue eyes tinted green. John held his breath. His lips looked so nice in that small, sleepy smile, and he was clean and smelled wonderful. It was fair to say that the excitement of the concert had mellowed into a hum of contentment, though the distinct arousal leftover from watching the band was still all there. Seeing Sherlock there, so close to him, did little to help that arousal ease.

“What are we gonna do for your seventeenth?” John husked, his breath warm on his wrist.

“Don’t know. Maybe we could take a trip, go to London.”

John closed his eyes and smiled. “London.”

Sherlock did the same, sighing. “London.”

Silence settled in again, just the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s foot and the ruffle of John’s head into his pillow. 

They waited for a while in the dark, saying nothing, dreaming of London, as the television flickered soundless scenes around them. The comfort of being near, as well as the exhaustion from the concert, had John and Sherlock slipping into a thin sleep. However, they were still hyper-aware of one another, so when John nudged Sherlock’s knee with his, Sherlock startled back awake.

“Pssst,” he whispered. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Sherlock groaned, “Why not?”

John didn’t respond immediately. He only watched Sherlock breathe lightly, eyes closed, just a foot away from him. _Because,_ John said to himself, his lips pulled taut to keep the words in, _because I want to keep this memory with you. If we fall asleep, it’ll all go into the dark, and we won’t remember. We won’t be in this… This moment. This thing. After the concert, tired, maybe a bit high. It won’t be the same if we fall asleep. So don’t fall asleep just yet, love._

He swallowed the thought down. Sherlock made a small impatient sound, as if waiting for an answer.

_And because… Sherlock… Because your eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t have them on me when you’re sleeping._

It was silly, and John knew it, but he didn’t care. It helped to string his feelings together in words, almost like poetry, even in his head. It reminded him of the letters and poems he’d give Sherlock as a boy. As well as the song Sherlock wrote for him.

Maybe they’d always been like this. On this level of something else, stuck in a moment like this. They just rarely had the chance to appreciate it.

“John?”

Sherlock’s small voice cut through John’s philosophical pondering. He wanted an answer, apparently. He was tired and trying not to fall asleep, so he needed an actual, vocal response.

“Because…” John started. “Because… tickle fight!” 

He moved quickly, pulling his numb hands from under his head and bringing them to Sherlock’s stomach, under the blankets. He wiggled his fingers against the soft material of Sherlock’s (his?) shirt, and Sherlock curled in instinctively, flexing his abdomen and squeaking. John tickled him harder, moving his hands to Sherlock’s sides, under his armpits, and even around the backs of his thighs. Sherlock, all the while, wriggled and laughed and squealed. He bucked so much that he kicked all the blankets off them, crumpling up under his twitchy legs.

John moved to sit up to get a better angle, teasing Sherlock’s underarms as Sherlock writhed beneath him. Sherlock tried to tickle him back, but he only managed to bonk John in different places, his shoulders, his cheek, his head. He reached for him, under the arms, but John was ready for it, clamping his arms down against his sides and pinning Sherlock under him.

Sherlock laughed and laughed, pleading for him to stop, but John knew that if Sherlock truly wanted him to stop, he’d make him. So John continued, a bit wild in his tickling, smiling and teasing, looking down at Sherlock heatedly. “Yeah? You want me to stop?” he grumbled.

“Stop, stop!” Sherlock laughed, tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Make me.”

Then Sherlock was pushing up, using his incredible strength to grab John by the waist and push him over. They rolled in the bed ’til Sherlock was sat atop John’s hips, straddling him and pinning his arms by his head. John’s stomach coiled and flipped and fluttered as it happened, and, a bit confused and breathless, he looked up at Sherlock. 

His gaze was dark and teasing as he sat on him, smile smug and proud, pink blush on his high cheeks. The television played an advertisement behind him, but all John could see was the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes and the twitch of his plump lips. 

It was so much all at once that John found himself completely and totally aroused. Hard and eager, he could feel the swell of his cock in his pants, straining against the fabric.

Either Sherlock didn’t realize this or hadn’t, because he was still smiling playfully down at John when John pried his wrists from Sherlock’s hands and moved to grip his hips. 

The smallest gasp escaped Sherlock, and his mouth fell open.

John licked his lips, circling his thumbs into the bones of Sherlock’s hips at the stretch of bare skin just above his the hem of his pajamas. 

Sherlock, with that hint, furrowed his brows and looked down at John’s groin. Something passed across his face that made his lids fall heavily over his beautiful eyes, and he tipped his head back. 

John’s heart beat furiously, nerves vibrating under his skin, cock twitching in anticipation. 

Then Sherlock began rolling his hips, just little gyrations against John, his hands moving to John’s shoulders. 

Heady in arousal, John canted his hips up to meet the movement, eyes sliding closed at the feeling of the hardness between Sherlock’s thighs rubbing against his own. He could feel that Sherlock, too, was straining in his silk bottoms, the thin material doing little to hide the solid thickness of his erection.

Sherlock kept grinding, deeper in each rotation, as John gripped his hips and thrusted up lightly.

Their eyes were closed, mostly, since every time John opened them to check if it was all real, he found Sherlock biting his lip, blushing a deep crimson. A spark of heat shot through him that was so intense, he feared he’d lose himself completely, so he had to look away.

Grinding and frotting together, the only sound in the room came from the two of them, a shuffle of fabric and heavy breathing. The television glowed, still on mute. 

Sherlock ground harder as John caught the sounds of his own heavy breathing. He was overwhelmed by lust and couldn’t really figure out what was happening, but it felt incredible.

John’s best friend, the love of his life, leaned forward a bit, dipping his groin deeper into John’s so the friction was more direct. The hardness of their cocks rubbed together through the thin material of their pajamas, the friction so bloody perfect that it soon became less precise, just needy little humps against each other. Then, after a few thrusts on John’s end, and a few more hearty grinds on Sherlock’s, Sherlock threw his head back, lips falling open in a silent cry.

He shuddered, hips spasming, legs trembling, as he came. John, who’d opened his eyes when he felt Sherlock tense above him, watched as a sweet ecstasy passed across Sherlock’s red face, plump mouth going wide as his brows furrowed. 

Sherlock’s face during an orgasm was, without a doubt, the most beautifully erotic thing that John had been witness to in all his seventeen years. And, as he dropped his lusty gaze lower, the sight of a damp spot forming at the front of Sherlock’s thin pajamas, pulled tight by his erection, had John thrusting up a few times before his own orgasm spasmed through him.

Trembling, he locked the muscles in his arse and thighs and made a damp spot of his own against the checkered pattern of his pants.

Breathing together, shaking and blushing, it was almost half a minute before they floated down from the heavens.

Sherlock rolled off John’s lap and onto his side of the bed. He reached for the blankets he’d kicked away, and pulled them up to his shoulder, curling away from John. John reached for the remote and clicked off the television, rolling back onto his own side, shuffling under the blanket.

In the darkness now, Sherlock and John lay back to back in the same bed, a chasm between them. 

It was completely silent now, as their breath had gone inaudible in nervousness. 

They struggled to sleep.

* * *

A week of awkward silence followed John’s birthday. They could barely look at each other without remembering waking up in the same bed with crusty stains on the fronts of their pajamas. They’d shuffled around each other that morning, changing on opposite sides of the room. When they made it down to the kitchen, Sherlock disappeared out the door quickly without so much as a goodbye. They didn’t eat the breakfast Elizabeth had made them.

At school, it was relatively easy to avoid each other, as Sherlock retreated to the library and John stuck with Nathan and Dean and Seamus. They asked where Sherlock was, and Molly asked Sherlock where John was, but both just shrugged.

The week spent apart wasn’t like the years in which they thought the other was mad at him. This was awkward space, sure that the moment they’d get together, they’d have to face what had happened. Neither of them were ready to face it.

So, the week continued on, filled to the brim with nervous glances and overthought. Sherlock stayed up, replaying the scene, remembering the coiling, deep, heady arousal that coursed through him. No amount of wanking could match it, as he had no choice but to rid himself of the immediate erection he got every time he thought about it. Which was, unfortunately, every second of the day. 

John was no better. He was distracted in class, rubbing his thighs together under the desk, eager to rush to the bathroom to rub one out. While he certainly felt awkward and confused about what had happened, there was only pure arousal left in him every time he thought of it. Sherlock’s needy little breaths, the bones rolling under his grip, the damp spot in the light blue silk of his pajamas…

God, John was _burning._ But what could he _do_ about it?

It was a Friday, just after school, when John tried to do something about it. 

Sherlock was talking to Molly, who’d found a boyfriend named Tom, or something, when John approached him. With Molly there, he felt more confident, sure he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. He nudged the back of Sherlock’s knee with his toe, and Sherlock turned on him. 

Startled, he went pink and darted his eyes from John to Molly as if they had planned this. John held his gaze on him, steady as he could, to assure him that they hadn’t planned anything, he just wanted to talk.

“Hey,” John said, the first actual word he’d spoken to Sherlock since “Make me.”

“Hello…” It seemed like Sherlock was desperately trying not to add a question mark to the end of it.

“You wanna catch the bus?” John asked, butterflies erupting under the press of his books to his stomach.

Sherlock took a moment, glancing between Molly and John. Molly nodded, urging him on. He turned back to John, holding his chin up like he often did when he needed more strength.

He pressed his lips together. “Okay.”

Then he left Molly, which was well enough, as Tom suddenly appeared, grinning wide like a plastic figurine. 

Sherlock and John walked together, silently, to the bus stop. They liked taking the bus back home, as it was a nice change from the walk back from their old school, but neither of them liked the publicity of it.

Luckily, publicity was just what they needed in that moment, so as they waited at the bus stop with the other students, some professors, and some old people, John cleared his throat.

* * *

“So, I was thinking, if we went to London, we have to go on the London Eye.”

Sherlock tried not to sigh in relief. John had turned back the clock to just the moment before it happened, thank _God._ He leaned back against the wood of the bus schedule, willing himself not to spiral into arousal even at the thought of “it.”

“Yes, definitely,” he replied. “We could see a play, too.”

He tried to play along with the thread of _Everything is fine, nothing happened._

“Oh, you and your plays,” John joked, nudging him. Sherlock’s heart sung. They were so close to being normal again, Sherlock had to press on, he had to fall back into the flirty cadence they danced in.

“Don’t play that game, John Watson. I’ve heard you singing _Les Misérables_ in the shower.”

John rolled his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder, nudging his nose into the soft skin of his neck like his sometimes did. It had Sherlock shivering with heat, but the familiar comfort of it grounded him. “You listen to me in the shower?”

“It’s difficult not to,” Sherlock said to the blond head now nipping at the collar of his shirt with his teeth. Sherlock breathed hard out his nose, stomach clenching, the ghost of John’s warm breath just barely brushing the skin where his neck met his shoulder. “You’re rather loud.” _But it’s okay,_ Sherlock thought to himself, urging his own jittery nerves to calm down, _You’ve a lovely singing voice._

John pulled his head off Sherlock’s shoulder, yanking the fabric between his teeth as he went. “Fine, whatever. I like musicals, so what? _Les Mis_ is a _classic.”_

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, settling them back on John’s flirty grin just as the bus pulled up. John knocked his shoulder with his as a sign of _It’s all fine_ before stepping towards the bus.

Sherlock, relieved, willed himself to agree. Everything would be fine.

Well, fine enough. Truth be told, they’d probably blush a lot more, if that were even possible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! IN THE SPIRIT OF DEMONS AND THEIR LUSTY FIRES OF HELL, TAKE THIS SIN!
> 
> Oh my god, oh my GOD, I'M FUCKING _BURNING!_
> 
> So, this chapter is literally the chapter that made me want to write this whole fic. All that pre-school shit, that ten-year-old shit, I mean, it's cute and all, but this is _the thing_ that everything has been leading up to. Can you say sexual tension to the extreme!? 
> 
> Also, please tell me if you're suffering because out of everything that just happened on the bed... they never even kissed... That was intentional, and I'm charring in an inferno I created.
> 
> P.S. I keep surprising myself, in every fic I write, just how gay it'll get. Like, I keep thinking I can't get any gayer. But I'm wrong, God, I prove myself wrong.
> 
> Anyway, leave a comment or [send me an ask](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com/ask) if you liked it! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indeed, the tension of that night was present, but with it, a new physicality blossomed between them.

Just as the year before, college continued to treat them well. Sherlock was still friends with John’s other mates, John still spent every second of the day with Sherlock no matter who else came ‘round, and they were happy. They had plenty of time to pad around together, brushing shoulders and smiling stupidly at each other. They’d always done this, of course, but now they were absolutely sure that it was just the nature of them. Their friendship had seemed to cross over into something it hadn’t ever been: completely fearless. Well, almost. While they let themselves fall freely, feel things they’d never let themselves feel before, the memory of John’s birthday burned between them. An ever-present heat, it flared up when they were in pajamas, but it was never spoken of. They pretended it didn’t happen, and if they ever spoke of John’s seventeenth, they retold it without including sharing a bed. John told friends of the band they saw, the songs they played. He never told them that every night since, he dreamed of Sherlock’s blushing face as an orgasm sparked through him.

Indeed, the tension of that night was present, but with it, a new physicality blossomed between them. Comfortable now, they touched each other more than they ever had, and even as their skin tingled, it was a familiar contact. Warm skin, solid chests, the rise and fall of a stomach, thin bones of a wrist. They had explored each other’s bodies in the dark cove of John’s bedroom, and now, in the foggy haze of day, they couldn’t keep themselves from doing the same, however innocent it seemed. So, with a new appreciation of each other’s physiques, everything was normal. Mostly. It was new and a lot more sure, but the boys were still just as flirty and playful as they’d ever been.

Of course, that confident physicality may have been territory specifically reserved for romantic partners, but then, was that not what they were?

Sherlock would be poking at an experiment, or even just making tea in the kitchen, and John could sneak up behind him and lightly kick his bum, when before, he’d only put a hand on his shoulder. While John was brushing his teeth in the morning after a sleepover (cautiously not in the same bed anymore, of course, they must draw the line somewhere), Sherlock would come in and ruffle up his hair just after he’d style it. And they still went around town together, buying little presents for each other and paying local artists to paint their portraits. They’d then put these paintings up with the old photos and stand in Sherlock’s room and look at the walls, see how their faces grew from chubby, round, and young, into the chiseled and handsome features they were now. Some nights, they’d just stay in and watch a movie and cuddle. Nobody really knew when it started happening, the cuddling, but neither of them minded. Sherlock would curl up next to John, throw his legs over his lap, and rest his head on his chest. He’d critique the movie, just as he had when they sat on other sides of the couch, but now, John would smooth a hand down his side and pat his hip, shushing him. It was absolutely ridiculous, actually, how it just went unspoken that this was the new nature of their relationship. Much of John and Sherlock’s relationship was unspoken, though. They just sort of followed the pull between them, doing what felt right. And, as they were both seventeen, what felt right was endless physical contact.

Now, outside of Sherlock and John’s newfound serenity, their families were doing well. Harry was just as she ever was, albeit, a bit more sharp ‘round the edges, but it was all fine. That was the way with the Watsons, anyway. It was a miracle John had gone so soft and pleasant in the last few years, due in entirety from his reconnection with Sherlock. And, their friendship seemed to bring new peace between Victoria and Elizabeth, as they continued on as if nothing had ever split them. The families were happy, and comfort almost seemed too good to be true after all that the both the Watsons and the Holmeses had endured.

Naturally, they still had moments of anger. John would forget to do the dishes and Elizabeth would be reminded of George, the delicate wound he’d left tearing open with a snarky remark. She’d apologize, of course, and John would finish his chores without another word. Sometimes, too, Harry would come home smelling a little bit too much like beer, and John would have to tell her that she was too young to be getting into it. She’d just roll her eyes at him and huff off into her room. Other times, a pretty girl would follow her into the house, nodding at John before disappearing.

Over on Sherlock’s end of the street, Mycroft would come home for holiday and tell Sherlock that he was in over his head with John. He’d talk of how important his job was to him, and that if Sherlock was anywhere near his level of importance, he wouldn’t be flirting around with a neighborhood goldfish. Strangely, though, it was the night before Mycroft left again in which he went soft, turned to Sherlock and John on the couch and told Sherlock that he would always be there for him. It was out of place and weird, but something was solemn in his voice and Sherlock nearly hated that he’d been so rude to him. He confessed this to John after his big brother had left, and John just patted his knee and gave him an understanding smile.

As ever, John and Sherlock weren’t without their disagreements. It wasn’t anything big, not really, just little tiffs here and there. Sherlock would shut down John’s requests for movies or deduce one of their friends’ crushes. Often, Sherlock would just say something a little too pretentious in class and John would have to set aside his own irritation to ward off their classmates’ sneer of “smart-arse.” It bothered John that people were still so rude to him, and even as he and Sherlock were so close, Sherlock still questioned why. John would just sigh, place a hand on Sherlock’s waist, and squeeze him. Sometimes he even kept his hands on Sherlock’s waist and hips while speaking to him, and most times, Sherlock nudged back, draping himself against John, arms over his shoulders. They spoke low and inaudible into each other’s ears, pressed together.

“I don’t like people being mean to you, you know that,” John had said, feeling perfectly at ease with Sherlock slumped against him. They fit.

“Do I?” Sherlock hummed back.

“Yes. Remember Colton?”

Sherlock would then go frigid, and John would rub circles into his waist with his thumb soothingly. “Obviously.”

“Right. Nothing’s changed since then, Sherlock. I’ll be angry at anyone who hurts you.”

“They don’t hurt me, John.”

“Still, they mean to.”

Sherlock had sighed against him, and John finally took his hands off his body and pulled away. Sherlock’s top lip twitched at the loss of contact, but John had to look into his eyes to tell him this.

“You’re smart,” John continued, “God, you’re the smartest thing I’ve ever seen, and they shouldn’t use that against you.”

“Hm.”

“But you can meet them halfway, Sherlock. Maybe try not to say anything too…”

“Accurate?”

“I was going to say proud. Be proud of yourself, Sherlock, like I’m proud of you, but don’t give them any more reason to taunt you than they already have.”

Sherlock’s eyes were a steady teal as he looked at John, considering. Then, to signal that he understood, he wordlessly rubbed John’s bicep with his index finger. John glanced at the feather-light touch before smiling softly and nodding back towards the café they were headed towards. It was a cloudy day, and a light mist covered the town, making them feel fresh and alive. They’d gotten some tea and sat at a table like any two friendly blokes. Though, perhaps not all friendly blokes played footsie under the table.

Conversations like that were scattered here and there. It seemed Sherlock needed more confirmation that John was there for him than John did. John knew that it would always be the two of them, and he told him that. “There’s always two of us, Sherlock.”

Sherlock would smile, eyes a little bit crinkly, before resting his chin on John’s head. John just reached up to ruffle his curls, push him off, call him and affection name, and leave his hand at the small of his back a little too firmly, a little too present.

But Sherlock didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. If he could, he’d be touched by and touch John every second of the day, feeling his warmth, his weight, his solidity. And they were affection enough at home and out in town, but school was different. So, as college went on, he tested the waters, wondering how far he could go. He never reached to hold John’s hand in the halls, as people might’ve talked (people did little else), but he would hold onto the strap of his backpack as they wove through the swarm of students. Sometimes, when John stopped in a classroom doorway to ask his professor something, Sherlock would be behind him, pressed right up against him, one arm slung over his shoulder, the other pushed flat against the other side of the doorway. If John took too long, he’d flop his face down onto John’s head and sigh impatiently, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, the smell of him. The professor would stumble over her answer and pause to look at Sherlock, but John just blinked, waiting, showing no reaction to the tall, lanky teenager draped around him.

Other times, they’d be sitting in the courtyard up against a tree, John resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, a book in his lap, their touching legs twisted and locked together. Every now and then, John would nudge his face into Sherlock’s neck and whisper a joke or comment against his skin.

* * *

During one of these particular courtyard snuggles, a group of three girls came up to them. Neither of the boys recognized them as anyone but a few bland faces in their economy class, and as they looked up at them, they did little to correct their position. Actually, Sherlock just pressed back against John’s chest, as he was sitting between his spread legs, John’s arms wrapped ‘round his waist.

“We have a question,” the leader of the pack said, tucking a white-blonde strand of hair behind her pierced ear. Sherlock thought the ring in her cartilage was the color of John’s eyes in the dark, while the pink flower jewel in her lobe was like John’s mouth. It was the only thing he could focus on, actually, as she spoke. John shifted behind him, squeezing his thighs against his sides protectively.

“Yes?” John said.

Sherlock could feel the sound in his chest, a deep, masculine vibration. He went warm at the sensation, warmer than he already was with John curled around him.

“There’s a bet going around,” she said, glancing back at her two minions, “And I really don’t want to lose twenty pounds. So if you could just tell us the truth, that’d be _grand_.”

“The truth about what?” Sherlock asked, eyes flicking between the platinum blonde and her ginger and brunette companions.

“Don’t be stupid, the truth about both of you.”

John leaned forward and moved his arms to fall over Sherlock’s shoulders protectively, wrapping snug around his clavicle. “About us?” he hummed.

Again, Sherlock could feel John’s voice inside him.

The stranger rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her small breasts. “Yeah. That you’re dating?”

Sherlock went red-hot and burned even hotter when John tightened his arms and legs around him, pulling him back into him. He could feel his groin on his tailbone. It felt nice.

“I see,” John said coolly.

“Is it true? Of course it is. You’re together, just say it.”

Now, Sherlock was certain that most of his classmates had gotten over rumors like this. Then again, he couldn’t very well blame them for their sudden surge of interest. It only took one glance at him and John to mistake them for a couple. They weren’t, though. Sherlock knew that. They were -

“Just friends,” John growled. “We’re just friends.”

Sherlock’s heart sank, but fluttered just as John moved his arms off his shoulders and back around his waist, hugging him tightly. John was acting strange, he usually wasn’t so affectionate in front of other people. _Perhaps he’s showing off for them?_

He didn’t have time to really wonder, though, because what the snide girl said in response snapped his attention to her cat-eyes and long, thin nose.

“I don’t believe you,” she spat.

John was quick. “Fine, don’t.”

It seemed the blonde was about to retort, but John’s response seemed to register. Sherlock deduced that she was both stubborn and confused. She thought them a couple, but John was telling her no. His actions, though, had the girl (and Sherlock) thinking otherwise.

He spoke again before she could, “We’re just really good friends. _Best_ friends.”

Now it was Sherlock’s time to confuse them. He leaned into John, dipping his head back and onto his shoulder. He closed his eyes pulled a sunny, close-lipped smile as he lolled his head and nudged it up against John’s ear. When he peeked back at the trio, the blonde had furrowed her brows. She let her glossy pink lips fall open, but this time, Sherlock cut her off.

“Goodbye,” he said.

She sought council in her two friends, who only shrugged and grimaced before flicking her gaze back to inspect John and Sherlock once more. Sherlock felt John give her a possessive, challenging glare. She got the message and turned away, shuffling her friends back through the courtyard, not even so much at glancing at the couple beneath the tree as she left.

John laughed, his chuckle vibrating into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock cuddled back against him closer, pulling his arms tighter across his body. “That was strange,” he said.

“Mm.” And then John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck, just a soft, warm, slightly damp compression against his skin. Sherlock couldn’t help but shift against him and let out the smallest, breathiest moan. John laughed at it and nuzzled his face into his shoulder.

Sherlock relaxed back into him, into the arms of his John, his best friend. They continued to sit, tangled up in each other, under the tree in the courtyard, catching every student’s eye with their undeniable affection.

It was two days later when everything finally, officially, changed.

* * *

John and Sherlock were sitting just off campus grounds at a mosaic-tiled bench when it happened. John had been thinking about bringing it up for a while, but the events of the days before brought the confidence he needed to really try. In the day between the encounter with the pushy blonde and as they sat now, they’d napped together at Sherlock’s house, John curled around him in bed, completely disregarding their rule of no bedsharing. When they awoke, Sherlock rolled over and nestled into John’s arms. With no reason not to, John wrapped him up and held him close until Sherlock’s mum found them and called them down to dinner.

Now, in public, John fiddled with the material of his trousers nervously. They sat face-to-face, straddling the bench so there was nothing but open space between them. Sherlock watched him curiously, beautiful with his thick brow furrowed, pink, plump lips and high cheekbones and sea glass eyes. He was wearing one of John’s old green scarves and the color made his dark curls more gorgeous against the England fog than ever. Or, that could just be that Sherlock was more attractive every day. He was pretty and delicate and masculine and tall and gorgeous and fit and familiar and spectacularly new all at once. He was innocently angelic in the same moment he was dangerously hot. Frankly, it drove John insane. And he had to do something about it, he just had to.

So he took a chance, right there, in the open.

“Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“John?”

He didn’t look in his eyes as he said it, only scuffed his heels against the leg of the bench and fiddled with his hands. He had no reason to be nervous, not with how things had been going, and yet he was. He wanted to tell Sherlock everything, all the time, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to overwhelm him. But he had to at least say something. He had to.

“Look, I know what happened on my birthday was-“ Sherlock inhaled sharply, like he didn’t want to talk about it, but John pressed on all the same, “was weird. For us, both of us. And I’m… relieved that it didn’t ruin… what we have. But I have to tell you.” John took a deep breath, willing himself to look in Sherlock’s eyes. They were open, wondering, pleading, curious, hesitant. It was so vulnerable, so cautious. John wanted to wrap him up in a hug and convey what he felt through that, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock would get it. He needed to say it, even if he wasn’t ever any good at this sort of stuff. “I have to tell you.”

“John?” Sherlock said again.

John breathed strength into his lungs, replaying the heavyweight words he wanted to say in his head so as not to say them aloud. _I have to tell you that I’m in love with you, I’m so goddamn in love with you, I’ve always been, and I want to be with you,_ really _be with you._

John started. “I… I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… couldn’t help it. And I know, I _know_ , that’s not an excuse. But it’s what happened. You were there, in the bed with me, and I just… God, this is bad.” He chuckled nervously.

Sherlock was silent.

“Sherlock?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“What you mean. What couldn’t you help?”

“God, Sherlock, don’t make me -“ but John looked at Sherlock, just looked right in his eyes. He was truly confused; he wasn’t getting it. John licked his lips. “I couldn’t keep myself from… touching you… like that. You were so… and I… Fuck, you’re _you_ , and I have impulses, and I just-“

“Impulses.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I’m just. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”

Sherlock was calm. A bit pink in the face, but mostly calm. “Nothing’s ruined.”

“Well, fine. I’m glad. I really didn’t mean to make it like that because clearly it’s not.”

“Make it like what?”

“I… Uh, well I didn’t want to push those… feelings… onto you.”

“Feelings?”

John was almost impatient with him, almost. He deserved the truth, though. He deserved patience and honesty. So, even as John’s eyes darted all ‘round the place, at the trees to his right and the town behind Sherlock and the school to his left, he finally settled them on Sherlock’s face and reached forward. He put a hand on his thigh, just to calm him, to assure him that he wasn’t going to say anything bad. Well, he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t think it bad.

He looked right in Sherlock’s eyes, willing himself to seem as honest as possible. “I have feelings for you, Sherlock.”

Again, Sherlock was silent.

“I like you,” he pressed.

“Of course you like me, we’re friends.”

John huffed half a laugh, not at Sherlock, just out of nerves. He could feel himself flushing deeply, hot and red. “Yeah, yes, we are. But I like you more than a friend. I think I always have, actually.”

John’s hand was still on Sherlock’s thigh as he watched his brows furrow and his eyes flick over invisible evidence before him. He seemed to be figuring it out. John held his breath, he didn’t think it’d be this hard to explain.

Then, after a stretch of silence, Sherlock said, “…Like you liked Sarah?”

God, his voice was so small. He was so fragile here, so different than the long, heavy body John now craved desperately. He was like porcelain who didn’t understand that John wasn’t trying to break him. John was gentle, he always was, but something just wasn’t registering. He had to make it clear.

“Yes, like Sarah. But more, God, so much more. I don’t even think I really liked Sarah, but I _know_ I like you. I like you more than anyone in the whole world, Sherlock. I like you so much. And, er… in _that_ way.”

John begged himself to stop talking, but he couldn’t. He just wanted to tell him, tell him and tell him and never stop telling him how he utterly a _fool_ for him he was.

Finally, Sherlock breathed in sharply and raised his proud nose high into the air. He looked at John from under his lids, and John retracted his hand in fear that Sherlock would shut him down. He couldn’t be sure, anyway.

Instead, Sherlock surprised him. “I feel the same, John.”

“You do?”

“Obviously.”

John dropped his head between his shoulders in a huff, and he could feel the weight pull at the base of his spine. When he looked back up, he smoothed a hand through his styled hair and said, “It wasn’t obvious to me.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The friends fell silent and looked at each other for a long time. John wanted to ask him so many things, but all that came out was after a moment was, “Are you sure?”

And then Sherlock smiled. He went all crinkly and soft, his lips pulling flat into his cheeks. He nodded. “Yes, John. I’m sure. I like you in… that way.” Sherlock glanced down nervously as he rubbed his knuckles. John watched him as his perfect mouth formed the words, “Like a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend!?” John didn’t know why he was surprised, but his heart was hammering wildly in his chest and the mention of the word made it spark fiercely. The term sounded so funny in Sherlock’s voice, but even funnier in John’s, as he went a bit squeaky in surprise.

“Yes. A boyfriend.”

“Hm. Boyfriend.”

The word felt strange yet comfortable as they passed it back and forth, but it was what they passed in their eyes that really held the weight of them. They stared at each other a little longer, sounds of people from the school floating over to them on the autumn breeze. Swatches of color passed around them, but neither of them noticed. All they saw in each other was their life together, their struggles, the time they weren’t friends at all, how much that hurt. They saw playing with Redbeard and smoking out by the bins. They remembered classrooms and beanbags and books and professors, playgrounds and parks. They saw Christmas and Valentine’s and birthdays, their parents watching them wrestle from the doorway. They saw all that they could have been so long ago, something that could have soothed their worried hearts. All of this went unspoken, of course, but it was there. They could feel it, like a current between them, a shared past. It was almost otherworldly, really.

Sherlock’s curls fluffed around his face, and John felt the hair on his arms prickle under his coat. Yet he was warm, he was so warm, humming with a warmth that he’d always felt around Sherlock, but now it glowed pink-orange inside him, fierce and confident. He harnessed it to finally break the silence.

“So… would you maybe… want to be… boyfriends?”

As he said it, the worlds between them settled, and they were back in their second year of college, sitting together under the grey haze.

Sherlock took a moment to pull himself out of the current before he blinked and smirked. “We are boys,” his rumbling voice pitching deep like it often went when he spoke only for John. “And we are friends.”

“True, yes, both true.”

“And everyone seems to think we are already.”

“Again, true.”

Sherlock looked towards the school, pausing for a moment. John admired his profile, his prominent nose and strong jaw, his green knit scarf that hid the tight column of his neck that John had pressed a hopeful, experimental kiss to. When Sherlock turned back, his pupils were dilated, deep black circles in the center of a ring of light blue topaz. Just as sparkling, just as brilliant. But love, too, was there. And John matched it, letting himself love on Sherlock so hard he could feel it in his eyes.

“I think it could work,” Sherlock finally said.

John nodded slowly, still beaming. “Good.”

And then they were staring again, knees nearly touching, wind kissing their cheeks chilly. John roamed his eyes all over Sherlock’s face, his stomach warm, his own bottom lip unable to escape the pull of his tongue and teeth as he eyed Sherlock’s mouth.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Hm.”

“You look funny.”

“Yeah?”

“You look like you want to kiss me.”

John huffed, just a rush air out his nose as his smile pulled tighter. “Yeah, well, that’s ‘cause I do.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, the pink of his tongue darting out, just for a moment, before he pulled it back in. John had never seen him do that before. It had him quite hot and bothered, actually.

“It could be acceptable.”

“Acceptable?”

“Please kiss me, John.”

John didn’t need to be told a third time. He scooted forward on the bench, hands going to Sherlock’s waist, pulling him so Sherlock’s knees went all wonky and knobby up on John’s thighs. With his hands sound and solid on Sherlock’s body, John moved up and into his space. Sherlock made a little gasp when John pressed his lips to the stretch of neck he could see above his scarf, right under his jaw. Sherlock turned his face down just as John moved up, meeting his lips perfectly.

It was soft and tender and wonderful, the one thing they’d been missing in all their years. They’d conquered fantasy lands, listened to the same albums ’til they wore out, slept in the same bed countless times, went to school together, and even ground against each other into orgasm, but they had never, not once, really kissed.

And here they were, sitting together, wrapped up against the cold, Sherlock’s hands on John’s thighs, John pulling Sherlock by the waist into him. Their mouths were warm and damp, and their lips fit together flawlessly. It was innocent, just a hearty smooch, until Sherlock squirmed under John’s hands and made another desperate sound. John pulled back, pink in the face, eyes heavy in lust, stuttering out “Sher-?” before Sherlock pressed back in and kissed him again.

This time, Sherlock moved his arms around John’s back and wove his fingers up into his hair, arching his back and spreading his thighs to press himself down into the bench. John felt him buckle under his touch, and he couldn’t help but roam his hands all over him, down his thighs and up his sides, finally settling one on his hip while the other gripped the back of his neck, fingers in the soft curl at the base of his neck. Sherlock opened his mouth against John’s, so desperate for more that John could feel it. He pushed back with his tongue, brushing Sherlock’s gently. Sherlock hummed a guttural moan, and John matched it. Soon, John was groaning a bit, tonguing him deeply, rolling himself inside Sherlock’s mouth and tasting him. Sherlock learned quickly, and he licked back. John sparked with heat and arousal, and it had him pulling back to nip at Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His fingers sneaked up into Sherlock’s curls as he did so, and in the wild snog, he accidentally tugged on them. Sherlock gasped and tipped his head back into John’s hands, leaving John to mouth his jaw. He moved his other trembling hand to the front of Sherlock’s scarf and tugged it loose, allowing him access to Sherlock’s delicate neck. He mouthed it hungrily, sucking the skin and kissing back up under his jaw and even to his ear, utterly wrecked in how much he wanted him. Sherlock let him nibble his ear for a bit before he turned back to find John’s mouth.

They squirmed and kissed and groped each other, Sherlock grabbing at any bit of John he could find - his biceps, his waist, his hips, his bum. Every touch became less innocent as they went, and while John couldn’t think of anything but the the feel of Sherlock, the taste of Sherlock, and Sherlock himself, deep in the back of his mind, he knew that if they weren’t careful, they’d be caught. So he pulled back, lips tingling, groin swollen and tight in his trousers.

He looked at a blissed-out Sherlock, his lips swollen and wet, his cheeks flushed, eyes heavy and dreamy. John spotted a red mark on his neck, wet with his saliva. He didn’t really remember doing that, honestly.

He moved a hand to Sherlock’s cheek and cupped his face, sweeping his thumb over his cheekbone. He leant back in to press one final, soft, innocent kiss on Sherlock’s parted lips before he called to him.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Sherlock slowly blinked open his eyes, looking throughly wrecked. “Hey.”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Thank you, I was just snogged into oblivion by the most perfect boy in the world. Blame him.”

“All right now,” John flushed, smoothing his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, “Don’t get sappy on me.”

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile before he breathed a happy sigh and let his head fall against John’s shoulder. John pulled him in, holding him. Sherlock turned his face and pressed his nose into John’s neck.

John tensed, “Oi, your nose is cold.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock slurred, with no attempt to remove his nose from its place beneath John’s ear.

John just pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curly head and held him closer, laying his chin on his shoulder so they fit, just two little shadowy figures on a colorful bench outside their college. John breathed in the cold air, the feel, smell, and taste of Sherlock wrapping him in a daze not unlike a blissful high.

They stayed like that a while, just holding each other. When they finally untangled, they kissed a bit more, as it was hard to stop. Reluctantly, they stood on trembling legs. They then laced fingers and walked, hand in hand, to the bus stop, eager to get home and pick up where they left off.

Seventeen years. Seventeen years of friendship, family, love. Seventeen years of wondering, wishing, waiting. Seventeen years.

And yet, it was only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, they're finally boyfriends.  
>   
> Oh my god, it's been ages. I'm sorry, I was finishing up my first semester of college and finals and holiday blues and dkfhdfhgdjfhg it doesn't matter, I'm here now.  
>   
> How was everyone's death over the special? Funny how we were right about everything, yeah? Hope you got the references to it in this chapter ;)  
>   
> Anyway, here's this. Remember, if you're dying, imagine how dead I am, I had to write this garbage. Plus, I've known how these two babs were gonna get together since Chapter 1 (Though, truth be told, many of the chapters were a bit gayer than I expected them to be. Such as this one, they're so goddamn touchy omg keep it together).  
>   
> If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment or send me an [ask](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com/ask) on [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com)! And if you like this gay fluff, check out my johnlock/Tangled crossover, [Curled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480592/chapters/10185629).  
>   
> Oh, and one last thing - there's one chapter left. Here's a pretty obvious spoiler: They gon' fuck.  
>   
> Have a good one! And thanks for your patience! <3


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loved to take him there, use his lips or tongue or fingers to clear Sherlock’s thoughts, replace the crossing sparks and lines of his overactive mind with the cloudy, lavender hum of an orgasm.

University. Finally, after more than a dozen years of school, John and Sherlock had made it to university. They’d gone together, of course, and even signed up to be roommates. How could they not? They were together, officially, and they were never going to leave each other again. At least, they hoped not. They wanted to go through life side by side, just as they always had. And while they wouldn’t take all the same courses, as Sherlock was looking into science and John leaned more towards medicine, they knew they’d always be together. From now until the end.

Before the end could come, of course, they had to live all the years between. And they were happy to - blissfully, stupidly happy. They were committed to each other. John and Sherlock were in a relationship, just as they always had been, and they had no plans to break it off. It might have been foolish to be so devoted so soon, but they’d lived their entire lives together. It wouldn’t make sense to slow down now. Because now, they’d finally arrived.

John and Sherlock were both eighteen and experiencing the world anew. Truly away from home now, they lived on their own. Their university was a handful of hours away from the Fens, a completely new world, and John and Sherlock were grateful. They loved their parents and siblings and missed them, but this was a necessary change. It was a new life, a new step. Mycroft and Harriet would survive without having them to tease.

While many of their classmates from Wisbech Academy joined them in continuing onto university, the campus was large and the familiar faces of acquaintances blended into crowds of strangers. But it was fine, as John and Sherlock’s friends, Dean and Seamus and Nathan, had stuck with them. Dean and Seamus took up a room together, and Nathan found some bloke named Barry and struggled to conform to his “no girls in the dorm” policy. And of course, Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper came, too. Sherlock and Greg got on well, and while Molly had stopped fawning over him long ago, he still got the occasional stare, and he had to remind her that he was with John now.

He was with John. As he always had been, since the start. The two of them, always. Now, of course, it was different.

While their parents hadn’t so much as flinched when they came home one day, hand in hand, between them, they knew it was different. Their parents may have been expecting it, John’s mother even telling him so over breakfast one morning, but John and Sherlock could never have prepared for how different it really was.

Some things were the same, of course they were. They still fought like brothers, they still wrestled over what to watch, where to go at night. They still teased, argued with, and danced around each other. They still shoved each other out of the way in the bathroom, still borrowed each other’s clothes without asking, and touched whenever and however they could. Now, though, they kissed.

God, they kissed all the time. So much, actually, that one time the dean of the university caught them in the hallway, tongue-tied and handsy. They knew her, Mrs Hudson was her name, as they often were caught playing pranks.

When she came upon them, lip-locked and oblivious, she pried them apart and dragged them by the ears to her office, eerily calm as she went. Standing before her large wooden desk, this time Sherlock and John were pink in the face and guilty of more than just filling Anderson’s shoes with guck. This time they’d been “disturbing the other students” with their “overly enthusiastic affections.” And, while the university, by the dean’s orders, didn’t prohibit same sex couples, public displays of affection were snuffed out as soon as they flared up. And Sherlock and John had definitely flared, red-hot and lost in each other’s wet mouths.

So, looking between them with a hint of mirth in her worn eyes, Mrs Hudson had spoken to them.

“Boys,” she said. “I’m not going to punish you.”

John and Sherlock let out a relieved breath, but sucked it back in as she continued.

“But I’m not going to let you get off easy, either. Especially because I know you’ve been caught before, pranking other students, even going so far as standing up in the courtyard to call out which students have… ‘known’ each other.” She waited a moment for dramatic effect, and the boys shifted awkwardly. “Now, our policy is that all students are allowed freedom of self-expression, including but not limited to romantic endeavors. Of course, this doesn’t mean you can make the hallway your own personal bedroom. I assume you have rooms of your own. In fact,” she shuffled through the papers before her, “You’re roommates. That’s the best set up there is, isn’t it?”

The boys, lightly blushing before, now went beet red. Not only was the dean less than subtle in her implications, she had fooled all the students with her pleasant and welcoming face. Whenever a student was caught, however, she exhibited the incredible power she had over them, stern and unrelenting. Luckily, seeing as John and Sherlock had been in this exact office no less than nine times, they couldn’t be fooled by her maroon blouses and twinkling eyes any longer. They knew she could wreck their entire lives with one word. Strangely, she didn’t.

“You two remind me of my sister’s boys. They were always getting into trouble growing up, but they were two of the smartest boys I’ve ever known. They had incredible talent, perseverance, and drive. They pulled it together, thankfully, and now are doing quite well for themselves. One of them is in politics, actually.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John saw it out of the corner of his eye and smirked.

“Right, well, not for everyone, I suppose.” She clasped her hands, dark polished nails standing out against her pale hands. “I have things to get to, boys, and frankly I don’t know why they even send you to me. This isn’t what I’m paid for.” Mrs Hudson stared them down, looking between them, building up the silence once more. Then, “I’m sure you get the point. No more snogging in public, please, and especially not in the hallways. Save it for the dormitories.”

John and Sherlock nodded quickly, eager to leave, but the dean held them there a little longer, raising her chin.

“One final thing. I see promise in you two, more than either of you can see. That streak of wit, that sharpness. Those are fantastic qualities. I only hope you use them well, and not on something that’ll send you here again. Understood?”

They nodded again, John even squeaking out a “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now get out of here, you’ve taken up too much time as it is.” She then waved them off, and they hustled out her office and past the secretary, who gave them a quizzical look as they broke through the heavy wooden doors and back onto campus.

Silently, they walked together back to their dorm. It was only when they were inside did they laugh, asking each other if, in fact, the dean of their university had let them go with nothing but some advice and a warning to get a room. Luckily, they had one, and after a few more moments of giggles, they finished what they started in the hallway.

Now, with a passion such as theirs, it was hard to keep their hands off each other. That’s how they ended up groping each other’s arses in the hallway, anyway. Sherlock had never felt anything like what he felt for John, and John had never felt anything as intense as he did for Sherlock. It was touch and be touched, all the time, and it was hard to stop. Even as they weren’t new to each other, they were new to _this_ , and they took it slowly as they could.

That first day, almost a year before, they’d gone home and continued to kiss and kiss. They rolled around in the sheets, kissing sloppily, working themselves up… but that was it. They eventually calmed down, a bit nervous, and settled in to watch a movie, cuddling and kissing intermediately. The days following were the same, just working themselves up more and more. Actually, it wasn’t until about three weeks in that anything like what had happened on John’s birthday came to them. Under the sheets, they frotted together, helplessly rubbing themselves together to orgasm, but even that was almost overwhelming. There was just so much there that they wanted, so much desire and tension that they’d built up over the years, and now that they were finally outlet to chase it in full, it was just… hard.

Well, of course it was hard. They both were.

Still, they went about it fairly timidly. Neither of them had done anything past grinding and snogging, and even as John used to grope Sarah, they’d never done much. Sarah wasn’t Sherlock - obviously, nobody was - so comparing the experiences was useless. It was all new, and while it was familiar and easy to let feelings guide them, neither John nor Sherlock wanted to be overwhelmed, wanted to mess anything up, or truth be told, get physically hurt.

So they went along as best they could, keeping it open. John always told Sherlock he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, and Sherlock was comfortable telling John when he needed to slow down. They snogged often, Sherlock’s slender, pale neck going blotchy and red from John’s needy mouth, John’s ears getting their fair share of blood as he blushed from head to toe. They’d mark each other up, mess each other’s hair, and make it almost impossible to sit calmly when one of them wore an open collar or tight trousers. Sometimes, even, John’s chest and back would burn red from Sherlock’s fingernails raking through his skin as John’s firm hand closed around his cock and tugged him into the stars. Sherlock would return the favor, happy to, never once feeling like he owed John anything. It was comfortable, consensual, and wonderful. They knew each other’s bodies, knew what kind of release was needed when, and what touches made the other go wild. Neither John nor Sherlock were ever upset when one or both of them wasn’t in the mood (though they usually were). They’d touched each other everywhere, with hands and mouths, and they’d found a groove. Sherlock liked to please John, and he was always willing to wrap his perfect pink mouth around his cock, John’s hand in his hair. And, less delicately, sometimes he liked to sit on John’s face. John liked this too, and while they struggled to figure out what exactly they were supposed to do, they spent plenty of time watching pornography together and figuring it out. John’s tongue, God bless it, eventually found its way around Sherlock’s groin and arse, and getting him off that way was like magic.

Too, they frotted and ground together. Sometimes it was quick and breathless, just rolling together, fully clothed, before class. Others, it was naked and wet, squeezing their hard cocks together, coming all over their stomachs and chests. On occasion, even, Sherlock pressed his thighs together and John fucked him through his legs. And when they really got worked up, they’d slick up and finger each other until they were damp with sweat and shivering with pleasure. And, as needy as they were, they found that using their hands, fingers, and mouths kept them satisfied and happy for nearly an entire year. By the end of it, they’d done everything but penetrative anal sex.

But they did talk about it, of course they did. They talked about everything. There was very little they didn’t mention, except for John’s birthday and those three blasted words that almost didn’t even need to be said. When they talked about sex, they came to the agreement that they’d want to try everything, always. Sherlock had studied the culture of sex, and now that he was a part of it, he realized that he was more likely to be on what was called “the receiving end.” He didn’t have a problem with this, not at all, and in fact, the thought of John doing things to him that other men did to each other in the videos they found had him going mad. But he wasn’t alone in it, as John wanted it, too. Often he’d waste entire class periods thinking about Sherlock fucking him into the mattress, using his ridiculous hands to grip his waist and pound into him,. The fact that it would more than likely become a reality had him blushing, and one time, the girl in the seat beside him had even asked if he had a fever. He only shook his head, said he was fine, and went back to imagining sex with Sherlock, this time riding him from the top, using his football-trained thighs to press him into the bed, hands wandering up his blushing chest as he bounced in his lap. It was safe to say that he often didn’t take down notes on these days, and Sherlock had to persuade him with a blowjob or two to get his grades back up.

Indeed, John and Sherlock wanted to try everything. As they got closer and closer to the last tier, they agreed that they’d be subject to switch. However they felt, whatever way made sense for them in that moment, would happen. There was so much more to explore, so many positions, and neither of them wanted to limit any of it to just one of them.

So, as time went on, they fell into a comfortable zone of “any day now.” Any day now, one of them would ask for permission to take the plunge, so to speak.

And they were ready. They knew what it meant for them, how it was more than sex. It was the one of the last _first_ things they could do together before marriage and raising a family, which neither of them really thought much of. Still, this was important to them, to their relationship. Sherlock and John knew that sex wasn’t for everyone, and that some people didn’t want it or need it - they understood that. Sherlock knew that quite well, actually. Before his feelings for John turned sexual, he would have been completely fine never having sex with anyone. He didn’t feel a need to, anyway. So they knew that it wasn’t necessary, they would have been just as valid without it. They wanted it all the same, though. Dear God above, they wanted it so much!

They slept in the same bed every night, even as their dorm came with two, and with the warm solidity of that perfect body in his arms, it was hard not to want everything.

Luckily, about halfway into their first year at university, everything happened.

* * *

It was a Friday, late afternoon, after class, when John and Sherlock felt ready. They didn’t really say much, they didn’t confirm that this was the moment, they just knew. The weather was right - grey and drizzling, casting the small dorm in a dark silver glow - and they felt right, too. They’d both had pretty relaxing classes, just taking notes, no big exams. They felt comfortable and pliant and happy, exactly what’s needed when braving another step.

Sherlock was already home, sat at his desk and studying the leaves of his potted plants when John came back.

In their dorm, there were two identical beds, two personal desks, two dressers beneath the beds, two shelves, and two closets at either side of the door. The walls were painted with posters of bands and Sherlock’s periodic table, and the shelves housed photographs and trinkets taken from home. Their personal desks were messy with papers and school supplies, dirty clothes flung over the chairs and shoved in bunches into corners. Between the two beds sat a large, clear window overlooking the campus. Beneath it - a huge and beautiful mahogany work desk. Sherlock, while he had his own desk provided by the school, had bought it specifically for the dorm and demanded John to help him move it in. While they shared everything, John knew that this particular desk was Sherlock’s alone, and he usually left him alone as he sat at it. He’d sit on his bed, every now and then looking over at his boyfriend as he sat hunched, experimenting, studying, or composing at his massive desk.

The desk was Sherlock’s mind: messy and brilliant and chaotic and orderly all at once. It was home to many ongoing experiments, as well as his textbooks and his beloved potted plants. It’s glossy mahogany surface had seen plenty of late nights and strange substances, including but not limited to semen. Sometimes John couldn’t help but press Sherlock against the desk with his body and let Sherlock blow off steam by fucking himself into his hand, coming hard all over himself and John as John mouthed his neck. Once, actually, Sherlock had been in a strop, and John was tense from football. They agreed to relieve the tension by hoisting Sherlock up onto the desk on all fours, John behind him, eating him out as he touched himself. It only lasted a few moments, as the stress of the day had them keyed up and restless, and once Sherlock came, the desk was painted with sticky wet spots that were soon wiped away (though the memory remained).

Most of the time, though, it was a workspace. It was now, on this Friday, as Sherlock sat in the low, worn wood and leather chair, tracing a fingertip gently down a leaf of his favorite plant when John opened the door.

He dropped his bag into the collective mess in the corner and went to Sherlock. He draped his arms over his shoulders and kissed his head. Sherlock leaned back into his chest, tilted his face up, and asked silently for a kiss on the lips. John gave him one, nice and sweet, before dropping his head to his shoulder and nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck.

“How was your day?” he asked, hands wandering down Sherlock’s chest and into his waistband, just to rest his palms on the protrusion of Sherlock’s hipbones. Sherlock hummed into the touch.

“Tedious, but otherwise acceptable. And you?”

“Better now.” John turned his face and kissed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock cocked his head to give him more surface to cover, which he took happily, peppering kisses up and down the soft skin and all the way to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Got any plans tonight?” he said, breath warm and damp against Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock turned as best he could to look at him, and John popped forward to kiss the high part of his cheek, chilly tip of his nose nudging the crease of Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock smiled at it, both of them adoring every single one of the kisses they were now allowed. He hummed, “Mm, no, don’t think so.”

“Good.”

And then John was taking him by the forearm and dragging him towards the more comfortable of the two beds, falling back into the messy sheets and blankets and pulling Sherlock atop him. Sherlock squirmed for a while before he went limp, falling heavy against John’s body and soaking up his warmth. John traced his hands down his sides and back, studying the body he’d come to know so well over the last decade or so. And now, John found, Sherlock’s body was even better.

Once they’d gotten together, Sherlock had started eating and going out more. What had been bony before went soft from the rich foods they ate, just a thin layer of fat over his abdomen, his hips, the inside of his thighs, and his perfect bum. Sherlock had also gained muscle from playing scrap football with John, rushing from class to class, sometimes even joining John in the gym. His back had grown more solid, stronger, better for carrying books, better for fooling around, better to grip when Sherlock rolled atop John, grinding into him. His legs were strong, too, long and capable. And while it seemed impossible that he’d get any taller, he had. He was still lean, but now, not as skeletal. He looked like a tall, healthy, fit, handsome boy. John was into it so, _so_ much.

And, from what Sherlock had told him, John matched if not exceeded Sherlock’s appeal. Sherlock told him all the time that he was so handsome, so fit, so gorgeous. It was easier to believe it, especially as Sherlock’s eyes were honest and beautiful every time he praised him. So, now that he could, John would sometimes toot his own horn. He’d tease Sherlock, nip his ear and tell him he’s lucky for having such a handsome boyfriend, that everyone is so jealous that he was the only one for him.

Sherlock never disagreed.

John felt it was true, at least in part. He’d taken up football again, and playing on the school team was more intense than anything he’d seen before. Occasionally, he went to the gym to train with weights, and it had him bulking up and trimming down in all the right places. He was sturdy and fit, with sculpted shoulders and a cut abdomen, but he wasn’t without his own bit of pudge. Their university offered a wide, complete selection of meals, and John took every opportunity he could to sneak cakes and crisps back to their dorm. So he was healthy, healthy as ever, but not without some softness. And Sherlock liked it, he liked to lay his head on John’s stomach and pet his fingers through the sparse hair on his navel and groin. Sherlock liked it, so John did, too.

In this moment, though, John was thinking only of Sherlock’s body atop his. John’s face was buried in his neck, his hands going down the curve of his back and to the loops of his trousers. His dark trousers and white dress shirt were so much more flattering than the blue school uniforms or worn t-shirts he’d wear (though John loved to see him in one of his old t-shirts with nothing else on but socks. There was something about the softness of it that had him tackling Sherlock where he stood and sucking him off right there, his socked feet going over his shoulders). Dressed up, though, Sherlock looked so much more adult, so handsome and ready. It was absolutely dreadful coming home to see him bent over a book, a pencil stuck behind his ear, white shirt pushed up his forearms, curls overgrown and messy. Sometimes he even wore glasses, just for fun. John went wild when he did.

He was wild now, spurred on by the heat of Sherlock’s body and the warmth of their dorm, as the air outside their building was crisp and cool. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s bum, pulling him against him and massaging it until Sherlock stirred. He twitched against him and moved to find John’s mouth, soon propping himself up on his elbows to kiss him deeply. Sherlock spread his thighs a bit, bending his knees to crouch above John as he kissed him.

Sherlock had gotten so good at kissing, it was almost surreal. He knew just how to dip his tongue into John’s mouth, how to nip at his lower lip, how to make him mad with the taste of him. Everything about Sherlock was maddening, actually, especially the fact that he was currently still wearing clothes.

John began pulling his white shirt out of his trousers, reveling in the warm, smooth skin of his back. Sherlock shifted to help him swoop around and tug it out his front, and just as John began fumbling with the buttons, Sherlock swiveled himself down and ground into him. John groaned, sure that Sherlock was as eager as him by the sudden hardness between his legs. He continued to kiss him, all down his jaw and neck, as he messily unbuttoned his shirt. Finally the halves came apart, and John could trail his hands around both sides of his torso and grip his waist, feeling the bones of his hips working as he gyrated against him. Sherlock, apparently, didn’t want to be the only one exposed, so he pushed John back against the bed, his lips leaving his neck with an obscene pop. He pulled his arms off his waist and, quickly as he could, stripped him of his soft, navy t-shirt. Then he wiggled out of the halves of his own shirt and tossed it away.

Bare now, they immediately pressed their skin together, nearly groaning in pleasure at the familiar contact. Back to kissing, John let his hands wander again, this time slipping beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and cupping the bare skin of his bum. Sherlock breathed harder and rocked into John as he pulled him in, and after a bit of helpless squirming and frotting, John kissed down his shoulder and murmured his name against his skin. Sherlock, in response, trailed his tongue along the underside of John’s jaw as he worked to unbutton his trousers.

There really was no point in wasting time, in dancing around staying dressed. They knew what they wanted, and while they were never completely sure how far they’d go, this time they felt it. It was going to be great, and it wouldn’t be if they didn’t get naked as soon as possible.

So, knowing how to get it started, Sherlock unzipped John’s fly and slipped his hand down below his pants. John canted his hips up at the feel of Sherlock’s hand against his cock, and after a moment of breathless focus, he regained himself as best he could and returned the sentiment. He undid Sherlock’s trousers just the same and matched his movements, working his hand down and against the soft, warm skin. John used his other hand to shove Sherlock’s trousers a bit lower, pulling his cock out and into the hot air between their bodies. Just as Sherlock mirrored him, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and began to tug on him.

John would never, not ever, get over the feeling of Sherlock’s cock in his hand. It was perfect, solid and real and hot, but also so strange. The most intimate, human part of such a fascinating, wonderful creature was here in his hand, and just by squeezing it, Sherlock would shiver and make this amazingly human, breathless sound. So John did it again and again, tugging and squeezing him, matching Sherlock’s touches, until the innocent pink blush on both their faces deepened into a hearty crimson. As they went, John could feel the strain in Sherlock’s muscles from holding out, and after stroking him once more, he released him and sat up. Sherlock slowed his own touches and shifted in John’s lap as John pressed his closed mouth against his collarbone. He swiped his tongue across the bone and gripped Sherlock’s hips again, squeezing the muscle and bone so hard Sherlock gasped. When he did, he tipped his head back, and John surged forward and caught his neck under his tongue, suckling all over the skin, nipping it with his teeth. By the time he was working back down the other side to Sherlock’s shoulder, he was helplessly rocking against him, groin seeking friction but finding none.

Encouraged by his needy whines, John pushed on Sherlock’s hips and moved, flipping them over in smooth twist. Atop him now, they situated themselves into the mess of pillows and blankets, their hands pulling and touching and raking across any skin they could find as they kissed again. They kissed and kissed, wet and messy, John working himself in between Sherlock’s legs with a swivel of his strong spine. He lined up against his body, cocks pressed together between their stomachs. Like they’d done so many times before, they began to grind together, filling the small space with breathy gasps and the slight squeak of a rocking dormitory bed.

To John, the feeling of Sherlock’s body beneath his, squirming and solid and warm and hard and damp, was the best in the world. He was so real, so responsive, so open. And, even as John had known him his entire life, knowing him this way was another thing entirely. It was comfortable and familiar and new all at once, and with every tremble, every gasp, John blessed his life over once more.

Here and now, Sherlock let John work him, roll against him, bring him surging up in pleasure and careening back down, keeping the pace, keeping the balance. Sherlock had confessed in a fit of heat that he craved having John atop him, absolutely adored having John use his steady hands and powerful hips to press their bodies together, hold himself up while simultaneously lifting Sherlock to the heavens. In turn, John loved to take him there, use his lips or tongue or fingers to clear Sherlock’s thoughts, replace the crossing sparks and lines of his overactive mind with the cloudy, lavender hum of an orgasm.

However, he didn’t want to get there yet. He wanted to make this last, for both of them. So John slowed his rolling hips to a stop, Sherlock still whimpering and spasming beneath him in needy thrusts. John shushed him, first with a finger to his lips and then a kiss, holding his restless hips in two warm hands. He pressed him into the bed, calming him with his weight, before shuffled and went down, trailing kisses from Sherlock’s clavicle to his stomach. John ghosted a hot, damp breath over Sherlock’s exposed cock, flushed and sticky, hands still at his hips. Without warning, he closed his mouth over the head and sucked up, pulling a breathless cry from Sherlock’s chest with a swivel of his head. Then he went down, sliding the entire length of Sherlock into his mouth, nudging a bit into his throat.

No matter how many times he’d sucked Sherlock off, the taste and feel of him wrecking him every time. He was thick and warm, twitching a bit against John’s tongue, salty and sweet all at once. John sucked him deep into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, as he held him steady with his hands. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the movement, honed in only on the job before him. He didn’t hear Sherlock’s increasingly noisy whimpers, nor did notice that Sherlock was meeting his mouth with his hips, causing the small bed to sag. All he knew was that Sherlock was wet and hard and lovely, and John loved it.

He continued to suck Sherlock off for a few more minutes, reveling in the pleasure it gave both of them, but he slowed to a stop and pulled off when he felt Sherlock tense beneath him. He raised his head from between Sherlock’s legs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked down at him.

Sherlock was a mess. His forehead was damp with sweat, a few errant curls stuck to the creases by his eyes. Said eyes were closed, just faint lids and a swoop of black lashes. His high cheeks were flushed pink, and his lips were swollen from being chewed and kissed. Sometimes, when he was really worked up, his chest went a bit red. It was reddened now, a lovely rose sheen creeping across the pale expanse of his pectorals and up his neck. There were marks on his abdomen, red lines in all directions, that must have formed when Sherlock struggled to find grip on his own body. His dark trousers had been pushed low on his hips and his hard, wet cock jut up between his open fly and towards his bellybutton. He was so disheveled, so beautiful, and so angelic that John just stared at him for a moment, grossly dragging his eyes from Sherlock’s cock to his face and back again.

As always, Sherlock would have none of this hesitation, even if John was looking down at him like he’d never seen something so beautiful. So, as John watched stupidly, he sat up in a sort of half-hearted pounce and pushed John by the chest onto his back.

John let himself fall against the bed as Sherlock leaned over him, pressing kisses all against his neck and jaw and face. John was about to say something about how eager Sherlock was, but as his boyfriend traveled lower on his chest, the quip drowned itself in a lustful groan. Sherlock was determined, and he knew what he was doing. His tongue was sure as it swirled around John’s navel, lavishing the spot where John had been connected to his mother in the same moment Sherlock had been with his, bringing both of them into the world only a few months apart. And, outside of that, John just had a sensitive bellybutton.

Balling the sheets and blankets in his fists as Sherlock snuffled lower, John glanced down to find Sherlock pressing his face into the thatch of dark blond hair at the base of his cock. Faintly, John could feel and hear Sherlock make a happy little sound, and his groin sparked in heat.

A few weeks after they started exploring each other with their mouths, Sherlock had also confessed to liking the smell of John, how over the years it’d just gotten better and better. John, incredibly aroused at the thought of Sherlock being attracted to the smell of him, expressed that he felt the same. Sometimes, after a long day of studying, Sherlock would have skipped a shower, and he’d adapt this sort of musky, personal scent. It made John’s head light and his groin heavy. And now, John’s scent seemed to have the same effect on Sherlock as he buried his sharp nose into John’s soft hair. John lifted a hand from the bedsheets and into Sherlock’s curls, petting his hair affectionately. At the touch, Sherlock raised his face and blinked up at John, still blushing, his eyes a bit blurry in lust. John struggled to give Sherlock his best smile, and Sherlock’s pink lips twitched in response. Then, quickly and smoothly, they were kissing along John’s cock and wrapping around the head, sucking him against his tongue.

John let his head fall back as Sherlock went to work, hollowing his sharp cheeks and sliding his flat tongue against the underside. He puckered his lips and moved his head, letting the softness of his mouth slide along John’s shaft, his tongue cradling it as he went.

Between them, Sherlock was better at sucking John’s cock, as he seemed to _really_ like to do it. John did, too, but he always got a bit sloppy the more excited he got. Sherlock was precise, tasting and pleasuring John as if his mouth was made for it. Sherlock closed his eyes and worked his jaw, his hands wandering up John’s bare torso to lay flat on his abdomen. As he kept the pace steady, his fingertips tracing circles in John’s skin, John worked himself up. It was a few minutes of blissful, wonderful pleasure, but Sherlock was too good. John was breathing hard and thrusting up against Sherlock’s mouth by the time Sherlock popped off and sat up. Without saying anything else, he leaned forward. John threw an arm over his blushing face to compose himself, and listened as Sherlock fumbled on the shelf above the bed.

John went hot in excitement. He knew what Sherlock was fishing for. While the shelf above the bed housed everything from movies to tissues, tucked away in one of the corners was a little metal crate full of condoms and lubricant. He didn’t know what to expect when Sherlock leaned back over him and pressed a warm, soft kiss to his forehead, but he was excited nonetheless.

Sherlock would never hurt him or do anything he didn’t want, just as he never would with Sherlock. And, in this moment, on this hazy afternoon day, there was nothing that John didn’t want. He wanted it all.

As usual, Sherlock gave him what he wanted but better, a twist of something new, something different and lovely and wonderful.

Sherlock stripped John of his trousers and pants quickly and threw them on the dorm room floor. He swiped his hands up John’s bare thighs and eased him with a kiss on both hipbones. Then he was back at his cock, leaning down between his legs and licking a tantalizing circle around the blushing head. After a moment of teasing, Sherlock sunk him back into his mouth and made lewd, sloppy noises as he fumbled with something in his hands. John leaned back into the bed and closed his eyes, as it was the most he could do with such a perfect, glorious mouth around his cock. Soon, something even better came to him, as he felt Sherlock shift his thighs up to spread his arse and roll a slick finger against his rim, just between his cheeks. John arched his back at the touch, but Sherlock kept steady.

The sensation was familiar and unusual, as Sherlock hadn’t touched him this way in a long time. Moreover, the stimulation from both his cock and his arse had him caught between a mix of spiking hot pleasure and a steady, low burn. The fire’s hum only increased when Sherlock slipped his finger inside him, just an inch or two, still rolling in a small, massage-like movement.

“Oh, Sh-Sherlock,” John stuttered, spreading his thighs just as Sherlock squeezed more lube directly onto his finger, pushing inside smoothly, deeply.

His mouth still on John’s cock, he worked the slickness around his insides. He spread his fingers, stretching John open just so it had him tilting off the bed in pleasure. And then, with Sherlock’s tongue rolling around the head, he began to pulse his fingers, touching John in the way that had his hot body flushing even hotter.

There were stars in John’s eyes, and every nerve danced under his warm skin. His stomach fluttered and clenched as Sherlock swiveled his head, and he was faintly aware he was making incredibly loud moans and groans. The poor students next door probably just turned their music up louder, as they were irritatingly used to it.

John held on as Sherlock brought him close, so close, but slowed just as he nearly came undone. He played him expertly, long, thin fingers, perfect for the delicacy of a violin just as perfect for bringing John to the the edge and back. And heavenly, too, was Sherlock’s mouth: warm, tender, and wet, sucking on John’s sensitive cock like there was nothing he’d rather be doing.

The small dorm was then filled with the electric tension of John holding out, his hands in Sherlock’s curls, his thighs spreading as far as the strong tendons would allow. As Sherlock continued, John swept his legs up over his shoulders and pulled him down, causing Sherlock to take him even deeper into his mouth. For a moment, John was almost worried, but Sherlock was a champ. His throat relaxed and he took John down, down into the dark, wet heat. His fingers never stilled as he went, and after another few moments of sparking pleasure, John called out.

“Sherlock, God _fuck_ -“

Sherlock took the sign. With one final swivel of his head and a twist of his fingers, Sherlock pulled his mouth off. His lips were shiny, and a string of saliva dripped between the fat flesh of his bottom lip and the sticky slit at the head of John’s cock. Seeing it, John had to look away, as it was too much. He felt Sherlock pull his fingers out, and his rim twitched around the cold emptiness.

Sherlock untangled himself from John’s legs as John calmed himself, counting time with the rise and fall of his own heavy breathing. He kept his eyes closed, reluctantly wishing away the remnants of Sherlock’s mouth and fingers. When he opened them, Sherlock was shifting on the bed, causing the lame mattress to surge and squeak. John peeked with heavily-lidded eyes as Sherlock shuffled out of his pants and trousers, his abdomen crunching as he kicked them to the floor. Then, turning back and creeping his hands up John’s thighs, Sherlock leaned over him once more. Fortunately, John was not alone in his arousal, as he could feel the heat on Sherlock’s skin, the tension of restraint, the salty smell of eager sweat. Sherlock, clearly not finished with him, pressed his lips to John’s cheek, then the tip of his nose, and then finally, his mouth. His lips were a bit sticky, but the kiss was sure, and it calmed John’s racing heart in its sweet comfort.

They kissed for a while, letting the buzzing attraction between them simmer into a steady hum. With a moment to spare, John let his hands find all their favorite spots on Sherlock’s body - the curve of his back, the dip of his waist, the space between his shoulder and neck - everywhere, everywhere.

Once both John and Sherlock were back in a comfortable, soft space, pink in the face and brimming with affection, Sherlock sat up over John’s lap. John raised himself on his elbows and looked at him, at his long torso, bashful cheeks, and messy curls. He’d be content just looking at Sherlock like this forever, just touching and kissing him for eternity. But Sherlock was still determined, and he surprised John by reaching behind him and bringing forward a silver square.

John held his breath as Sherlock’s thin fingers opened the package and gently retrieved the condom. They’d used them before, as they were good for quick clean-up, but this time, they both knew it was different. John knew it was different when Sherlock kissed him slow, he knew it was different when he suddenly went bashful as he was usually so comfortable, and he knew it was different as Sherlock took John’s cock in hand and rolled the soft, thin latex over it. He settled the rim at the base of John’s cock and stroked his hand down and up it once to secure it. John hissed through his teeth. Sherlock pressed his lips together.

* * *

Looking down at John, his handsome face, the rise and fall of his broad chest, the muscles in his abdomen, and the thick, hard cock in his hand sprouting from two V-cut hips and tufts of dark blond hair, Sherlock was sure. He’d only seldom been so sure in his life, sure of what he wanted, here and now. He wanted to ride him.

To think that this was the same boy who’d curled up in the beanbag with him in pre-school, the boy he’d watched race ‘round the football field from the sidelines, the boy who galloped down a long flight of stairs in socks on Christmas morning… This was his lifelong friend, his near-brother, and the love of his life. And here Sherlock was, about to sit on his cock.

Fitting, really. There was nobody else in the world Sherlock would think to be with in this way. Only John. So, when he reached around himself for the lubricant, there was no hesitation. He was confident as he uncapped it and squeezed some into his hands, and while he was blushing as he did so, there was no uncertainty at all as he slicked down John’s cock. And, though John’s blue eyes bore deep, burning holes into his body, he had never felt sexier. He felt fit and hot and adored as he lubed up his fingers and reached between his legs, wetting his rim and massaging himself to comfort.

By the time he was slick and wide and willing, John had grown a bit restless. He could see the tension in his muscles, the restraint in his bitten lip. John would never be impatient with him, especially not today, but even so. After a handful of years of repressing sexual desires, and even more spent desperately pining, by the time Sherlock spread his thighs on either side of John’s hips and pulled his cock up to meet his rim, there was little holding both of them back. Sherlock bore down as the head breached, and he sunk down, slowly, inch by inch, John’s hands holding his hips in place.

Had John and Sherlock had more patience, John probably would have loosened Sherlock up with his mouth, licking and sucking him ’til he was wide and needy. Now, however, there seemed to be not enough time. All the years of holding back, months of waiting, had finally caught up with them, and there was nothing either of them needed more but to be completely and totally fucked. And Sherlock was ready.

It took a moment for him to settle, as John was heavy and thick and unusually filling, but the slightly burning stretch was the best he’d ever felt, and John’s thumbs rubbed smooth circles into his hip bones as he waited. Once the searing heat had passed, only a pleasant fullness remained, and Sherlock nearly welled up at how good it was.

He tried not to, but there was a bit of dampness on his lashes all the same. He blinked it away and looked down at John, who was watching him like he’d never seen something so beautiful. And Sherlock, for all he’d endured, had never felt as lovely as he did now. He felt masculine and sexy and powerful and gorgeous, and it was a feeling he never wanted to live without again. And he knew he wouldn’t. John would always look at him like that, he always would.

So, with this in mind, Sherlock finally began to roll his hips. It was slow and easy, just a gentle pull and push, John sinking in and Sherlock raising up. It went on like that, Sherlock just testing the waters, for just a moment. It was silent but comfortable, and John’s steady breath kept in time with the push of Sherlock’s hips.

It was only when John spoke did the gentle barrier break.

“R-remember when we first did something like this?” John said, a husk on his breath that seemed to confess he’d not stopped thinking of it since the moment it happened.

Sherlock pushed his hips harder, something sparking low in his stomach and unfurling into a simmering heat. They’d not really spoken of it ever, even though they’d recreated it countless times.

“On my birthday,” John continued, almost demanding a verbal response. His ferocity was enticing, to say the least.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock rocked harder, John’s fingernails digging into his hips. “Yes, I remember.”

“You were so hot, so fucking hot.”

Sherlock’s stomach flipped as he said it, and he let out a plaintive groan. John, seemingly proud of the reaction, tried for more by raising his hips off the bed and pushing up into Sherlock, hard. Sherlock surged forward and loomed over John, so close he could feel his breath on his collarbones.

“John!”

John didn’t often talk dirty, (he rarely talked at all as his mouth was usually busy), but when he did… God have mercy on Sherlock’s soul.

“I wanted you so bad. You were so hot. I’d never seen you like that. Breathing so hard, so into it.”

Sherlock begged him to keep talking as John’s hands traveled to find the fat of his bum, pulling his cheeks apart as he thrust up between them. They found a rhythm, Sherlock pressing back and matching John’s driving hips. They went harder and harder, the slick, wet heat catching up with them. The pleasant fullness turned desperate, and Sherlock’s insides felt like they were doused in flames, warm and licking at all the sweet spots inside him. “J-John, please…”

John’s voice was going gruff, and it husked right in Sherlock’s neck, followed by a swipe of tongue and a few nips of teeth. 

“Why’d it take us so long, Sherlock?”

“I d-don’t know…”

“Fuck, to think we could’ve had _this_.”

On the last syllable, John pulled Sherlock’s bum hard and fucked up into it, grinding in a swivel, burying himself deep. Sherlock let out a horny yelp, curving his back so John’s thick, hard cock pushed into that perfect spot inside him that they’d both found with their fingers so many times. But now, it was intense, a blunt, heavy pleasure that made Sherlock’s limbs go weak.

Sloppily, they moved their faces together to kiss, muffling the last of John’s talk with wet, swollen tongues.

They rocked together, the small dorm bed croaking with the weight of two restless bodies. John pulled on Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock sucked on John’s tongue; John planted his feet and pushed hard into Sherlock, Sherlock rolled back onto his cock. It was a steady momentum, occasionally ruined by a husky moan or growl causing one of them to lose control, rock harder, throw the rhythm. They fucked like they’d been shagging all their lives.

Contrary to popular belief, both John and Sherlock understood something about sex that most people didn’t. It wasn’t a battle, but it wasn’t necessarily a game, either. It was an agreement, an unspoken assurance of balance: give and take, please and be pleased. It was security and discovery, a comfortable, familiar experiment.

And as they rode it out, they felt they knew the solution. That, perhaps, their story was the best there ever was, something almost everyone wanted. It took one mention of it to send them both careening over the edge.

“I love you,” John said.

Then they were coming, spasming together, rocking through their orgasms until John had spent himself completely inside the condom, and Sherlock had coated their stomachs. They slowed to a stop, still twitching with aftershocks, still catching the remnants of strangled moans in their throats. They paused, tension in their limbs keeping them suspended, just for a moment. Finally, with John still inside him, Sherlock slumped forward. He let his head fall on John’s chest, right where it belonged.

The dorm went quiet and still as they breathed, trailing along the breeze as they came down from an incredible high.

After a moment, John spoke again, lips in Sherlock’s curls. “I’m so in love with you.”

Wits restored, Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s skin. His voice was low and rough, but his tease was light. “You always have been, haven’t you?”

Sherlock couldn’t see John’s smile, but he felt it, just as sure as he felt John’s warm hand on his back, his softening cock inside him. He was right, and he knew it. John had been in love with him from the start. He knew that now, finally. He wasn’t alone in knowing, though, as John stroked his fingers down the curve of his back as if to say, _And so have you, yeah?_

Sherlock kissed John’s chest, just the smallest peck of lips against whatever skin they could reach. _Yeah._

They felt at peace like that, entwined on a dormitory bed, the silver clouds going dark and dousing their space in a blanket of grey.

As it had been for the past eighteen years, something went unspoken between them. Something that now, should it have had a voice, might have looked down at the two boys and said, _“O, cherish this sweet love, young ones. It will forever be your first and only.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! TAKE THE UNI GAYS!
> 
> Oh my god, oh my god... this is the last chapter... this is like... seven months in the making... and here we are. Finished. 
> 
> First of all, thank you to everyone who stuck through from the beginning! I know I was slow with updates there for a while, but first semester got crazy. Hopefully, here and now in second semester, things will calm down a bit. And thank you to all the new readers who get to binge this all at once! Remember that this is eighteen years for John and Sherlock, even if it might be just one night for you ;)
> 
> There are so many things I want to say about this fic, and if you want to indulge me, please please _please_ communicate with me on [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com). I'd love to talk about it with you.
> 
> But I will say, just for now, that this fic has been a process, and planning and writing it really helped me understand both the dynamic of John and Sherlock's characters as well as their relationship. I hope it gives you some insight, too.
> 
> That's all, my lovelies. 
> 
> Remember, if you liked this fic, check out the rest of my works and the other diamond of my heart, my Tangled fic, [Curled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480592/chapters/10185629)! 
> 
> Have a good one! :)  
> \- crimsonwinter

**Author's Note:**

> ❤︎ The End ❤︎
> 
> Thanks for reading, babes, and be sure to check out my other [works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/works) or follow my [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what happens when boys are not there.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482101) by [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee)




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